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TOLL. 1825. 



THE WEAVER'S BOY, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



CHAUNCY HARE TOWNSEND. 



Sbtcotfo (Ein'tum, 

WITH ADDITIONS AND CORRECTIONS. 



LONDON : 
THOMAS BOYS, LUDGATE HILL. 

1825. 



j3 l 



Ibotson and Palmer, Printers, Savoy Street, Strand. 



NOTICE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 



In bringing forward a second edition of my poems, 
I have endeavoured to render them less unworthy 
of public attention. Not unmindful of the friendly 
criticism of some of the reviews, I have, in com- 
pliance with their advice, omitted several ^poems, 
and greatly compressed others. The sonnets have 
been carefully corrected, and considerably altered. 
The odes, which, before, had little of the ode, but 
the name, have been reduced to a regular form ; 
with the exception of the one entitled Dramatic. 
In this, it was my wish to combine the rapid 
transitions of lyrical poetry with the dialogue of 
the drama. I fear that it is an anomaly in writing, 



NOTICE TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

but, as the experiment originates with myself, I 
must be content to bear whatever critical censure, 
it may call forth. A few poems are also added, 
which have not been published before. 

In these days (as the admirable author of the 
" Sketch Book" expresses it) " of hot heads, and 
fiery hearts/' the studier of Gray, Collins, and 
Warton, has but little chance of attracting atten- 
tion ; yet I will not revenge myself by drawing 
bills upon posterity, which posterity may never 
pay. That I have written for fame, as well as 
amusement, I will not deny \ but 

" Enough for me, if, to some feeling breast, 
" My lines a secret sympathy impart." 

Gray. 



TO 

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 

THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED, 
IN TOKEN OF GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION. 



Not to thy genius, so diffusely bright, 

My Muse, O Southey, pays her homage here, 

But to thy virtues, in the private sphere 

Of friendship best observ'd. The distant sight 

May scan a mountain's majesty, and height, 

But only he, whose step hath wander'd near, 

Hath seen its groves, and bosom'd cots appear, 

And felt their presence with a home delight. 

In early youth, thine ear was kindly lent 

To the faint trials of my slender pipe, 

And now, when haply still, as then, unripe, 

To thee this public tribute I present, 

With admiration warm esteem will blend, 

And greet thee as the poet less than friend. 



CONTENTS: 



Page. 

The WEAVER'S BOY, (a Tale) . . . . . 1 

ODES. 

1 To Memory . 23 

2 On the diversity of Poetic Character .... 28 

3 On the First of December . . . . . .34 

4 Hydon Hill . . . . . . . . 41 

5 On Religion . . . . . . . .48 

6 The Vernal Extasy 50 

7 Dramatic 54 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Anastasius to his Sleeping Child 71 

Childhood 76 

The Poet's Passion 79 

To the Setting Sun 81 

The Wall-Flower 85 

The Lonely Heart . ■ ., 87 

On Leaving a favourite Place of Residence . . . 90 

The Bliss of Sleep 94 

Lines, in imitation of the Old Poets . . . .96 

Anxiety 97 

The Lament . . . . . . . . .98 



CONTENTS. 



The Consolation 

Kindred Feeling 

Separation 

The Tear 

An Evening Thought 

The Summer Shower 

To the Scentless Violet 

Petition of an Old Oak 

A Wish . 

To Music 

Hint for a Picture 

Love and Friendship, (From the German) 

To Lucy . 

Absence . 

Faithful Love 

To Bertha 

To the Same 

A Lover's Fancy 

On the Death of a Lap-Dog 

WATERLOO, (a Poem) . 

SONGS. 

1 Oh, ever, as blithe Spring returns 

2 One after one, the joys of youth . 

3 There is an hour 

4 As, through the long, and tedious day 

5 My heart was once a garden fair . 

6 Farewell ! Farewell ! 

7 If to know thy fond affection 

8 Hunting Song, (From the German) 

9 I dream' d that thou of endless love 

10 The fever of the world has dried 

1 1 Oh, marvel not that I should weep 



CONTENTS. 



XI 



12 When o'er my brow steals Sorrow's deepening shroud 

13 There were two hearts .... 

14 Amid the west, the light decaying 

15 Song of a Mad Girl ..... 

1 6 The Complaint of a Girl forsaken by her Lover 

17 I know thee, now 

18 Song of the Sea-Nymphs . . . 

19 The Fisherman's Return .... 

20 ' Written to suit a wild German air 

21 Night, thy lone shades I once abhor r'd 

22 Those tears, those tears will rise to view 

23 There was a time, when all things simTd . 

24 Nay, do not wake the lyre again 

25 Constancy . . . . . 

26 Swift, to climes of brighter day . 

27 Hie we to the forest bower 

28 No,- Lady, 'tis not words can tell 

29 Belov'd in vain 

30 Think'st thou on me 

31 Thou say'st that grief my looks reveal 

32 When all, that once seem'd good, or fair 

33 Oh, were we, side by side, to stand 

34 Across my troubled path of life 

35 Oh, dark, and drear is the moonless night . 

36 The last gleam of Evening 

37 Song of an Indian Slave, separated from her Lover 

38 When Night is closing, drear, and chill 

39 The Farewell . . . . 

40 Remember me, when in thy cot 

41 Not yet, my soul, look back to view 

42 As, at the early break of dawn . 

43 Hoar Winter returns on the footsteps of Spring 

44 It was a winter's evening .... 

45 A Morning Hymn 



Page, 
161 
163 
163 
164 
166 
167 
168 
169 
171 
172 
173 
174 
174 
175 
176 
177 
178 
179 
180 
181 
181 
182 
183 
184 
185 
186 
188 
189 
190 
191 
192 
193 
194 
195 



x ii CONTENTS. 

SONNETS. 

Page. 

1 To the Sea 199 

2 The Winter Morning . . .... . • • 200 

3 The Winter Evening 201 

4 On Leaving Surrey . . . . . . 202 

5 The Tarn 203 

6 On Shakespeare 204 

7 Written on a Moonlight Night 205 

8 On a Lady Singing 206 

9 To Fanny, on her Birthday 207 

10 To Ada, on her Birthday 208 

11 On a Deserted Village in Cumberland . . . 209 

12 The Stormy Night 210 

13 On Surrey . . 211 

14 Written at Cambridge 21 2 

15 The Moonlight Walk 213 

16 To the Nightingale ... . . . • .214 

17 OnHagley 215 

18 The Choice .216 

19 On the Painting of Sal vator Rosa . . . .217 
\ 20 On genius 218 

< 21 The Copse .219 

22 On Fancy 22 ° 

23 Composed on the Sea-Shore . . • • .221 

24 OnKirke-White • .222 

25 Petrarch to Laura ....... 223 

26 On Visiting some Norman Ruins near Castle- Acre 

Priory, in Norfolk ...... 224 

27 To the Goddess of Mathematics . . . 225 

28 To Peace 226 

29 On finding some early Snow-Drops .... 227 

30 The Contrast 



228 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 
a Calf. 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 



Who once so blithe as William Field was known, 
And now so blest, since Mary is his own ? 
Who so industrious, in his small neat room, 
To ply the busy labours of the loom ? 
Then what pure joy, when evening's welcome close 
Dropt the soft curtain of serene repose-, 
The cheerful blaze, the social board to greet, 
By toil's harsh contrast render'd doubly sweet ; 
While each domestic pleasure, simply small, 
Was still enhanc'd by having earn'd it all. 
But, ah ! not his, what only can ensure 
Substantial bliss, and make our joys endure, 
That fix'd, that steady principle within, 
The guide to virtue, and the guard from sin : 
Daily to kneel, at church aloud to pray, 
While his loose thoughts were wand'ring far away, 

b 2 



4 THE WEAVER'S BOY, 

Was his religion. Marvel not he fell, 
But rather how he stood so long, so well ; 
Virtuous, because temptation ne'er assaiFd, 
But soon it came, more soon, alas, prevail'd ! 
One eve, when toil was o'er, his silent hearth 
Miss'd the gay prattle of accustom'd mirth : 
The ale-house had receiv'd its luckless guest : 
" What could he do? a friend so warmly prest." 
Ah ! who from Virtue's path has ever past, 
Who found the first step could be made the last ? 
Next time, he went to drink his Mary's health, 
Then meet a neighbour, and at last by stealth. 
Alas, when aught we fear should be reveal'd, 
Still find we more, that we would wish conceal'd ; 
'Till Sin, grown bold, no longer shrinks away, 
But bares her forehead to the open day ! 
Why should the Muse, with vain endeavour, dwell 
On what all eloquence were vain to tell ; 
How trembling love the first slight wound receives, 
Suspects, doubts, hesitates, at last believes? 
For him, no more unsullied love had charms, 
He left the wife's, and sought the wanton's, arms. 
To deck her person miserably gay, 
He squander'd all the earnings of the day : 
See, o'er the bowl, in noisy mirth, they sit, 
With laugh, and song, and wild indecent wit : 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

Then turn to yonder dwelling, pierce the gloom 
Of yon dark, silent, melancholy, room, 
Where, all alone, the more than widow'd wife 
Ponders her sad vicissitude of life, 
And, ever and anon advancing nigher, 
Hangs o'er the remnants of her wretched fire ; 
'Tis but mechanical : the mind will steel 
The frame against the worst, that it can feel. 
She thinks not of the cold ; it can impart 
No pang to her, whose chill is of the heart. 

Yet she complain'd not ; 'twas her eye alone, 
Her alter'd cheek, her voice's falt'ring tone, 
Which told she knew the miserable lot, 
He car'd but little, if she knew or not. 
She soon will be a mother ; that fond hope 
Still, still with torturing sorrow bids her cope : 
" How oft, in happier days, he has exprest 
" The wish most warmly cherish'd in his breast, 
" His Mary's likeness in her babe to see ; 
" He will not, cannot, coldly turn from me !" 
The hour is come. " My William, O what joy, 
" Our infant lives, and is a lovely boy ! 
" But, oh, my last, last shilling, it is gone, 
" And I am left, without support, alone !" 
" I'm glad the brat's a boy, at any rate, 
" For, if he lives, he'll do the work I hate ; 



6 THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

" And, as for money, why, this sixpence take." 

'Twas one, that she had giv'n him for her sake ! 

She hears no more, for she has heard the knell, 

Which sounds to all her lingering hopes farewell ; 

With one appealing look of mute distress 

Her eyelids close in transient lifelessness ; 

While he just asks some neighbouring dame to come, 

And tend his wife; then careless quits the room. 

Oh, how couldst thou that agony survive ? 

'Twas nature whisper'd, " for thine infant live." 

And thou didst live. This weary world below 

Were no sad scene of trial, scarce of woe, 

If, with the first keen, penetrating stroke, 

God's chast'ning hand inflicts, the full heart broke ; 

Therefore, made stronger than ourselves believe, 

We live, grief's perfect measure to receive, 

While death's kind slumber seems to fly from woes, 

And latest lull the wretched to repose. 

Yet ev'n thine anguish, yielding for a while, 

Fled from before thy child's endearing smile ; 

Thy inmost heart the potent charm confest, 

And all the mother woke within thy breast. 

What woe can conquer, or what force controul , 

That more than love, that instinct of the soul ? 

Not all the warmest of affection's zeal, 

Brother for brother, friend for friend, can feel, 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 7 

Or for his bride, the new-made bridegroom prove, 

Can match that holy, that surpassing love. 

Then, as he grew, his first faint words to hear, 

O best of music to a mother's ear ! 

Till, looking in thy face, and creeping nigh, 

He wistfully would ask, " What makes you cry?" 

That question draws a fuller gush of tears, 

But they relieve the heart, and then the smile appears. 

Oft with maternal pride she view'd the child, 

His face so fair, his large blue eye so mild ; 

And such his temper ; one, whom nature forms, 

Unfit to struggle with life's ruder storms. 

Nurs'd in the lap of grief, his timid soul 

From all around, a kindred sadness stole. 

Oft, as he past a childish group at play, 

He seem'd to ask, " Why am I not as they ?" 

Not so defin'd the feeling, nor exprest, 

Yet such the mute sensation of his breast. 

The father, where was he ? his sullen meal, 
Where all in silence seem'd restraint to feel, 
Was seldom snatch'd at home ; he rarely slept 
With her, who could not sleep, but woke and wept. 
Instinctively the boy his aspect fear'd, 
And, scarcely knowing why, shrunk back if he appear 'd : 
While filial love, concentrated in one, 
Was doubly strong ; he only seem'd her son. 



8 THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

Years roll'd away, to all or swift or slow, 
As pleasure wing'd them or retarded woe. 
Seven now are number'd since young Edmund's birth. 
To him all happy in his quiet mirth ; 
But now the sad, the dreaded time is come, 
When he must labour at the daily loom, 
While Mary, though the hours have slowly past, 
Still asks, half doubting, " Is it come at last?" 
Task'd by his tyrant father, and at length, 
Like a worst slave, beyond his slender strength, 
Beaten on each pretence, howe'er untrue, 
And for not doing what he could not do, 
The sorrowing boy began to droop and fade, 
His spirits broken, and his health decayed. 
But then the mother, who had still represt 
Her own deep sorrows in her silent breast, 
Rous'd for her child, with indignation rose, 
And dar'd complain ; and what the answer ? blows ! 
Poor Edmund rush'd in agony between, 
With feeble efforts her, he lov'd, to screen. 
" Strike me, but not my mother !" With an oath, 
The base, unmanly tyrant struck them both. 
Oft was the scene repeated, and three years 
Past slowly onward between threats and tears. 
Then to her breast the savage blow was driven ; 
It was the kindest he had ever given ! 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. ! 

It left the cureless malady behind ; 

Cure of the worse, inflicted on her mind, 

She never told, she sought no skill to save, 

But sank, contented, gently to the grave. 

" O home of peace ! the weary rest from care ! 

" O bliss ! the wicked cease from troubling there !" 

Then, while her heart-struck Edmund wept beside, 

She blest him, kist his pallid cheek, and died. 

See to the grave the small procession come ; 
The child, the father, follow to the tomb. 
mockery ! the mourning garb he wears, 
And hides his face, to hide his want of tears ; 
While the poor orphan'd boy beside him stands, 
Sobs, with convulsive force, and wrings his hands. 
Well may'st thou mourn, thy only friend is gone, 
And thou in loneliness must suffer on ; 
In worse than loneliness, for that were joy 
To weep, where none thy sorrows might annoy. 
None hast thou now, whose tender words may cheer, 
Whose hand wipe off the still-returning tear ; 
On whose kind breast to hang for sweet relief, 
While grief imparted seems no longer grief. 
But thou must see a proud, vain, wanton led 
Where once thy mother prest the marriage bed, 
And, at the table, shuddering view the chair, 
For her mild looks no longer meet thee there. 

b 5 



10 THE WEAVER'S BOY, 

The female fiend, who had usurp'd her place, 
Hated the living portrait of her face, 
Snatch'd all, the father left, of inward bliss, 
&nd join'd her curses, and her blows, to his. 
If e'er, for sometimes ev'n the worst will melt, 
One struggle of parental love he felt, 
She knew to stifle, with infernal art, 
The better purpose of his soft'ning heart. 

Poor child ! when both, beneath the night, went forth 
To join the revels of intemperate mirth, 
He sought his mother's grave, those tears to shed, 
Which he must hide, by day, with cautious dread. 
His trembling limbs to earth he there would throw, 
And sob th' impassion'd, broken, words of woe. 
" Oh, Mother! hear me! Dearest Mother! speak! 
" Oh, answer ! answer ! or my heart will break !" 
Then, pale and spiritless, at morn would rise, 
And bear new chiding for his redden'd eyes. 

Thou, whom he weeps, more warmly should'st have 
striven 
To draw an antidote to woe from heaven ; 
That only balm, which could relief impart, 
The silent, deep, religion of the heart : 
Thyself didst feel its sweet, consoling power ; 
O why not leave thy child that heav'nly dower ? 
Tis ever thus ; all wish their offspring blest 
For this they early rise, and late take rest ; 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. H 

But, oh, how few th' immortal spirit feed 
With what will profit in the hour of need ! 

And now, while, spent in drinking, day by day, 
The father's means verge swifter to decay, 
His wretched victim feels 'tis hard to know 
When sorrow here has reach'd its worst of woe ; 
His slumbers shorten'd, exercise debarr'd, 
His meals more scanty, and his tasks more hard ; 
Ev'n the bless'd day, which brings its sweet repose 
To all that breathe, for him no Sabbath rose. 
To some back chamber was the loom transferr'd, 
Where he might labour still, the sound unheard. 
But now the worst is come, through gradual care 
His soul sinks deep, then settles in despair ! 
No more he weeps, he scarcely seems to sigh, 
But bears his lot with languid apathy : 
His sunken eye, more dim, more hollow grew, 
His pale cheek deepen'd to a livid hue, 
All food seem'd poison which he loath'd to touch, 
And ev'n that stinted meal for him became too much. 

Look on him, wretch ! 'tis thou hast written there 
Unnatural sorrow, and untimely care ! 
Once was that cheek with health's best colours bright, 
And that eye sparkled with untroubled light : 
'Tis thou hast bid all these for ever flee ; 
And who art thou ? his father ! Can it be ? 



12 THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

Roam to the farthest realms, where endless snow 

Forbids the human spark of life to glow, 

Affection's noble instinct may be trac'd, 

Ev'n in the shapeless tenant of the waste ; 

Wound her lov'd offspring, and she will not fly, 

She first defends them, then with them will die : 

In death's last pang, beside them bleeding lies, 

Licks their poor wounds, and, as she licks them, dies. 

But thou, whom guilt than brute has render'd less, 

Sunk in the depths of sordid selfishness, 

On thine own child dost wreak thy wanton rage, 

And nip the blossom of his tender age. 

How couldst thou snatch kind Nature's precious boon, 

Which Nature's self, alas, revokes too soon, 

That unconcern, which happy childhood knows, 

Those buoyant spirits, and that blest repose, 

Which fears no future, and laments no past, 

Nor asks the present, if it flies too fast ? 

O how disturb the pure, untroubled source, 

Whence childhood's tears derive their gentle course, 

Bid them no longer from the surface flow, 

But ope the deep, the bitter, fount below ? 

And cause the sigh no longer to depart 

Light as the breeze, but wring it from the heart ? 

Go, bid the tear the cheek of manhood steep, 

'Tis manhood's lot to suffer, and to weep ; 



THE WEAVER'S BOY, 13 

Hurl to his bosom sorrow's keenest dart, 

But spare, O spare, sweet childhood's careless heart ! 

Upon that Eden, ere th' appointed hour, 

O, let not in the spoilers to devour, 

Lest, sinning thus against the laws of heaven, 

Like Satan's self, thou should 'st not be forgiven ! 

The thirteenth year had now scarce past away, 
Since Edmund's eyes first open'd on the day, 
One autumn's eve, his father, ere he went 
To the low haunt, where half his hours were spent, 
Exacted from his labour doubly more, 
Than even he had e'er requir'd before. 
" Bestir thyself, thou idle, loitering loon, 
" I must have money ; see thy work be done 
" Ere morning, or another stick I'll get 
" And beat thee, as thou ne'er wert beaten yet." 
The words, convey'd through sorrow's medium dense, 
Bore their harsh import slowly to his sense. 
A blow arous'd him. " Ideot, dost thou hear ? 
" Must I twice bawl my orders in thine ear?" 
Then, pointing to the loom, " There, sit thee down," 
He cried, and left his victim with a frown, 
Who stood awhile with lost, bewilder'd air, 
Then heartless, reckless, sank upon his chair : 
And, the hard task though hopeless to fulfil, 
His fingers move mechanically still. 



14 THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

But now he starts convulsively, and seems 
Like one awak'ning from perturbed dreams. 
A strange wild light came glancing o'er his eye, 
And his cheek flush'd a moment, " I will die !" 
Oh, was there none to bid thee timely flee, 
Poor child of woe, to Him who died for thee ? 

At morn the father sought the working-room, 
It was deserted ; in the silent loom 
The web but just begun, the chair o'erturn'd, 
As if in haste, and sudden anguish spurn'd. 
" What, dares he thus indulge himself in rest?" 
He seeks his chamber ; lo, the bed unprest ! 
Then, fierce with passion, " Surely he is fled, 
" But I'll soon fetch him back." Canst thou recal the 

dead? 
He hasten'd forth, and met a gath'ring throng, 
Who, in the midst, bore some dead weight along. 
They stop ; divide, with execrating hiss, 
" Thy cruelty hath driv'n thy son to this !" 
Yes, it was he ! The ghastly-staring eye, 
Which, open still, seem'd life's dread mockery, 
The livid blackness of the cheek, unfold 
The tale of horror, ere it yet is told. 

'Twas at the close of the preceding day, 
When gathering clouds gave speed to light's decay, 
A neighbour saw the boy, with aspect wild, 
Brush quickly by ; yet, as he pass'd, he smil'd. 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 15 

He felt inclin'd, he said, to stop the lad, 

And ask him, " Whither running ? Art thou mad V 

" Almost/' he added, ('twas his usual word, 

The gentle favorite of th' inactive herd, 

Who idle curiosity condemn, 

And heed but little what regards not them) 

Almost he meant to follow, and he bent 

His steps awhile the way that Edmund went. 

The boy was gone, and, when he saw him not, 

He thought it cold, turn'd homeward, and forgot. 

He too was one not overskill'd to trace 

The mind's expressive movements in the face ; 

Or how, untimely victim of despair, 

Gaz'd he on thine, nor saw death written there ? 

There is a nook, where elms o'erbranching shield 
A lonely hovel in a spacious field, 
Where the wild colt in summer might retreat 
Escape the show'r, or shun the sultry heat. 
Thither a peasant, at the dawn of day, 
Bore in his arms a fresh supply of hay ; 
Whistling in careless mirth, approach'd the rack, 
Uprais'd his eyes ; then trembling started back : 
He saw the hapless boy's suspended weight, 
And cut in haste the cord. It was too late ! 
The spirit was for ever fled. Ah, where ? 
Nay, fond, rash man, be reverent and forbear ! 



16 THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

The eyes of the Omniscient may see 
A door of mercy, unespied by thee. 

What felt the father? 'Twas regretted pelf, 
The hate of labor, " I must work myself " 
And some slight shame of man suffus'd his cheek, 
And made him falter, as he strove to speak : 
" Yes, I have been too harsh." In under tone, 
" Had I been less, he might have still work'd on." 
Remorse, not always do thy thunders roll, 
When man would deem that they must shake the soul. 
Unmov'd the murderer eyes the blood-stain'd knife, 
Which slew the father, or remov'd the wife. 
God gives the word, and, lo, thy terrors wake, 
Nor know again the slumber, which they break. 
Ah, then thy goads the mind to madness urge, 
Thy hand unpitying plies the noiseless scourge ; 
W T hile, at thy side, immortal Memory still 
Mocks each vain effort of the baffled will, 
Haunts every waking hour with new distress, 
Ev'n from short slumber steals forgetfulness, 
And, still untir'd by time, or change, where'er 
Turns the sick soul, presents her mirror there. 

Thus to the guilty man too surely came 
Th' appointed hour, which wrapt his heart in flame. 
Deep ineradicable habits lurk 
Within his breast; he will not, cannot work. 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 17 

The nearer ruin, still the less he thinks, 

Sells all he has, spends all he can, and drinks. 

Now, since the fatal day, a year had past ; 

When thus he mused : " One shilling- ! 'Tis my last ! 

" Well, I will spend it merrily at least; 

" What griefs by grieving ever were decreas'd ? 

" To-morroW, with no better chance for pelf, 

" A pistol charg'd for others, or myself." 

Then, hemming ofTth' involuntary sigh, 

He sought the scene of vulgar revelry, 

And, with his old companions, madly quaff'd 

The tempting poison, and as madly laugh'd. 

The market-clock night's deepest hour had told, 

A storm had risen, and the thunder roll'd. 

Yet, still unaw'd, carous'd the harden'd crew ; 

" If heav'n is noisy, we'll be noisy too." 

Loud grew the song ; when, lo, terrific light 

Glar'd through the room, insufferably bright. 

The instant thunder follow'd on the flash, 

In one short, quick, unutterable crash. 

The crazy building totter'd to the stroke, 

And darken'd with a dun, sulphureous smoke. 

The dreadful portent sober'd ev'n the drunk, 

The sounds of riot lessen'd, waver'd, sunk. 

Each on the other gaz'd, and quak'd to view 

His neighbour's face o'erspread with ghastly blue. 



18 THE WEAVER'S BOY. 

When William Field, as starting from a dream, 

Broke the dread silence with a piercing scream. 

Fix'd were his eyes ; his frame disorder'd shook ; 

" There, there they stand! (he cried) Look yonder, look!" 

" Who, who ?" they all exclaim'd, in accents wild : 

" What! see you not? My murder'd wife and child ! 

" Fiends drag me down ! Oh, torture me no more !" 

He fell, and, senseless, writh'd upon the floor. 

Life, o'er his frame, once more its influence shed, 

But the soul's life, celestial Reason, fled. 

Yet Memory wak'd too well, and all within 

Was but one thought of dark, unpardon'd sin. 

The last sad wreck of human guilt to hide, 

A maniac's cell the parish alms provide : 

As piecemeal drops the blasted oak away, 

Touch'd by the hand of God, he sank in slow decay. 

Such was the tale, which charm'd my list'ning youth, 
Indebted less to Fancy than to Truth. 
A grey-hair'd peasant gave it to mine ear, 
With many a pause of wonder, and of fear, 
As he, with faltering steps, my way would guide, 
To that lone scene of early suicide, 
Where yet remains, though now for ever shut, 
In superstitious dread, th' ill-omen'd hut. 
That fatal spot the simple rustics shun, 
Nor dare to pass it after set of sun. 



THE WEAVER'S BOY. 



19 



Gazing by day, will shake their heads, and sigh, 
And breathe a guardian prayer in wand 'ring by. 
Oft too I sought the village yew-tree's shade, 
Where, by his mother's side, was Edmund laid ; 
And, musing there, at evening's pensive time, 
I wove his mournful story into rhyme. 



ODES. 



ODES. 

— 4 

ODE I. 

TO MEMORY. 

STROPHE. 

Thou, who, with lifted wand sublime, 

While gathering back the pall of Time, 

Dost point the shadowy forms, that pass, 

Successive, o'er thy wizard glass, 

Thee, Memory, thee, what hues shall paint? 

Drooping now, like dying saint, 

Thee, the pale Nun, Repentance, leads, 

In some dim cave, to tell thy beads, 

And, far from toiling haunts of men, 

To live, a weeping Magdalen. 

Now the young Euphrosyne 

Braids the jocund dance with thee. 



24 ODES. 

Ah, frenzi'd now, with frantic force, 

Thou wav'st thy torch o'er dread Remorse ! 

Lo, by its lurid light, appear 

Wrath's fierce bloodhounds, chasing Fear ! 

(O'er quaking cliff, o'er wild morass, 

O'er pit, and precipice, they pass :) 

Anguish, who pours, without controul, 

In bursting sobs, her loosen'd soul ; 

Clasping her knees, where leans her head, 

Its scatter'd tresses forward spread : 

Despair, who starts, and wrings his hands, 

Then, like a moonstruck ideot, moping stands. 

Ah, rather, lost in tranced fit, 

At Music's side, soft mourner, sit, 

And all her blithest strains repeat 

In plaintive echoes, sadly sweet : 

'Midst Autumn's falling garlands stray, 

Or couch thee on the bank of May, 

To quaff the fragrance of some flower, 

Belov'd in childhood's artless hour. 

EPODE. 

O long rever'd ! With no unmeaning praise 
Did early Greece thy name celestial chuse, 

When, in the ardor of her deathless lays, 
She hail'd thee parent of each varied Muse 



ODES. 25 

On all the Powers of mind thy radiance streams, 
Like planets, only by reflection, bright, 

Wit does but hold his prism to thy beams, 
And flash abroad the many-colour'd light. 

Invention twines her chaplet from thy flow'rs, 
Fancy, on thy bold wing, spurns earth's domain, 

Ev'n Hope can only snatch thy sunniest hours, 
And bid them glow beneath her brighter reign. 

Say, stor'd in what innumerous cells, unseen, 
Hiv'st thou thy treasures, each from each apart ? 

All that has slept, as if it ne'er had been, 
How can'st thou bid to new existence start? 

Ah, whence do unknown scenes familiar seem, 
As if the soul life's pageant had rehears'd ? 

Ah, whence does many a vague, day-waking dream 
From some forgotten past, mysterious, burst ? 

When every sense unconscious Slumber shrouds, 
Still, still, thy quenchless energies awake ; 

Thy forms ev'n Madness only half o'erclouds, 
Like broken shadows in a ruffled lake. 



26 ODES. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Pale porteress of the haunted cell, 

Where our lost joys, and sorrows dwell, 

Oft, Memory, turn thy magic key, 

And ope thy precious stores for me ! 

For, though, with Pleasure, at thy side, 

Pain, a sister-handmaid, glide, 

Each draws from each such kindred grace, 

We know not which our arms embrace. 

When hushing rains descend around, 

With soft monotony of sound, 

When the weakly-flitting breeze 

Moans, like distant dashing-seas, 

Oft let thy gentle voice renew'd 

Steal on my thoughtful solitude. 

Or if the Moon, from Heav'n's blue steep, 

Calmly smile on Nature's sleep, 

Oh, soothe me with thy whisper 'd talk, 

Companion of my lonely walk ! 

With me thy classic spoils explore, 

Recal each godlike deed of yore, 

Whate'er thou gav'st to Clio's pen, 

Truth, Nature, passions, manners, men; 

Through darker ages, cautious, wind, 

And backward trace the mighty march of mind. 



ODES. 27 



When life to other worlds takes wing, 
To view no gorgon terrors bring ; 
Lead bright-ey'd Joy, and Hope serene, 
Who loves on humble Faith to lean ; 
And, when thine airy glance is cast, 
At one wide sweep, o'er all the past, 
Whate'er thy deathless office be, 
Beam an immortal smile on me ! 



c 2 



28 ODES. 



ODE II. 

ON THE 

DIVERSITY OF POETIC CHARACTER. 

I. 1. 

Apollo, as thy radiant car 

Tints each attendant cloud with varied light, 

When the young Hours Morn's orient gate unbar, 

Or meek-ey'd Evening woos thy westering flight ; 

These with a chasten'd warmth imbues, 

Those with countless gorgeous hues ; 

Here, clearly sheds its golden beams, 

There, dimly breaks in scatter'd gleams, 

While few, in full refulgence, roll, 

Nearest, beneath its glowing pole ; 

Thus, in each mind, which shares thy fires, 

Thy touch, O Lord of Song, a different zeal inspires. 

I. 2. 

Unquiet as the stricken deer, 

O'er brooks, and steeps, the young enthusiast leans, 
Oft-pausing, sighs, and drops th' unconscious tear, 
Knknowing what the soft confusion means ; 



ODES. 29 

Till feeling, as he pours his strains, 
Novel sweetness thrill his veins, 
While all his fancied cares depart, 
To thee he vows his grateful heart, 
Unskill'd, with piercing eye, to scan 
That more perplexing volume, Man, 
O'er Nature's page, enrapt, he pores, 
Her finer secrets reads, her coyer depths explores. 

I. 3. 

Who is he, whose fingers stray, 

So wildly, o'er the changeful lyre ? 
Whose dark eyes flash a troubled ray, 

Restless with more than mortal fire ? 
Now, by fantastic Horror led, 
High on the rock he lifts his lofty form, 
While the pale lightnings weave around his head, 
In careless grandeur, lost amid the storm. 

Now the Moon's uncertain light 

Gives his sunk cheek a ghastlier white. 
'Tis he, 'tis he, who, in the gifted hour, 
O Pythius, at thy Delphic altar kneels ! 
The Passions rave around ! He rocks ! He reels ! 
Friend of mankind, ah, where thy soothing power ? 
Lo, the same gleam, which innocently plays 
On Summer's balmy eve, awakes the tempest's blaze ! 



30 ODES. 

II. 1. 

Ah, turn to him, who, temperate, wields 
Of Eloquence the finely-temper'd sword ; 
To whom her keenest arrows Satire yields, 
Yet all in Virtue's golden quiver stor'd. 
His steps unfaltering Reason guides, 
Near him calm Persuasion glides ; 
Nor far apart, with frown serene, 
Is lofty Indignation seen ; 
Wit, ever-restless in his wiles, 
Who seldom laughs, but often smiles, 
And still a slight disdain, the while, 
Lurks in his dimpled cheek, and points his gayest smile. 

II. 2. 
Hark ! Woods re-echo, rocks rebound 
The piercing sound of the inspiring horn ! 
What godlike shadows answer to the sound, 
From old Thermopylae, from Cannse born ! 
They throng the minstrel, who disdains 
Lydian measures, Attic strains. 
Where the red-quivering, lurid air 
Glows with the burning city's glare ; 
Where Danger leaps the dizzy flood, 
And Strife her loose hair bathes in blood ; 
In Fancy's chariot rapt on high, 
He drinks the dying groan, the victor's thrilling cry. 



ODES. 31 

II. 3. 
From the blue, and summer wave 
I see a fairy isle ascend ; 
There, in a coral-woven cave, 
Young nymphs a queen-like form attend : 
One gives her locks a braided charm, 
Where Grace and Negligence divinely meet, 
One clasps the bracelet on her rounded arm, 
One binds the sandals on her polish'd feet. 

While, from ever-blooming bowers, 

A winged boy is gathering flowers. 
What bade the vision rise ? Heart-melting lays, 
That floated by from deep Idalia's grove, 
Rich with delight, and redolent of love, 
Touch'd by the bard, for whom th' inspiring rays, 
Quench'd in soft clouds, in rosy brightness, shine, 
And wake the odorous fires on Cytherea's shrine. 

III. 1. 

Phantoms of idle bliss, away ! 
Divorc'd from all the guileful joys of sense, 
With him, I waste the meditative day, 
Who seeks that bright, ideal Excellence, 
Which, o'er the wilderness of earth, 
Flies the soul, that gave it birth. 
Not Ceres' self, o'er vale and wild, 
More ceaseless sought her ravish'd child 



32 ODES. 

More eager snatch'd, from Etna's light, 
A torch, to guide her steps by night, 
Than he, o'er mental tracts, pursues, 
With Science-kindled torch, that Beauty's vision'd hues. 

III. 2. 
Haste, in the flower-wreath'd goblet pour 
The choicest vintage of Falernian birth, 
Till the bright rainbow bubbles sparkle o'er, 
To pledge the laughing bard, who dwells with Mirth. 
Ah no'! Through echoing cloisters dim, 
Let me roam, entranc'd, with him, 
To whom, O Muse, thy semblance pale 
Wears Melancholy's matron veil ; 
Or where, along the endless aisle, 
The last, last beams of evening smile, 
Or where sad yews, low-moaning, wave, 
In silence read, with him, the secrets of the grave. 

III. 3. 
Cease the song ! Can words give name 

To hues, of every doubtful die, 
That in the kindling Orient flame, 

Or melt amid the western sky ? 
Only, for him, awake the lyre, 
Who at Urania's hallow'd altar bends, 



ODES, 33 

And kindles, with a spark of heavenly fire, 
The master- torch, that Inspiration lends. 
Hark ! while peals his deep-ton'd shell, 
Angels the halleluiah swell ! 
For him, the pure, the lofty, and the sweet, 
The Muse in one celestial garland binds ; 
And all the splendors, that, through meaner minds, 
Shine scatteringly, in his concentred meet, 
As rays, that stream through windows, richly dight 
Pour, through the holy fane, one harmony of light. 



c 5 



34 ODES. 



ODE III. 

ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER. 

Now Summer, with her wanton court, 
And golden revels, doth resort 
To the south side of the world. 
Meanwhile, with humid wings unfurl'd, 
And dropping robe, comes weary Rain, 
First in Winter's sullen train. 
Next, Tempest rushes through the air, 
With loosen'd zone, and streaming hair : 
Blue, meagre Frost behind him steals, 
Whose breath all Nature's life congeals, 
With rimy-feather'd Snow, who shakes, 
From his ample sieve, the flakes. 

Nature's colours, lively flowers, 
Now are fled from meads, and bowers ; 
Save that, where wreathed roots emboss 
The shelter'd bank of cushion'd moss, 
The sickly primrose lifts her eye, 
Pale as the ghost of early joy ; 



ODES. 35 

Or, from the yellow, wat'ry mead, 
The latest crocus rears its head. 

Slow, along the cloddy fields, 
His bending whip the ploughman wields, 
Where the stubble, scorch'd, and tann'd, 
Roughens o'er the ravag'd land. 
The shrubbery's litter'd walks around, 
Bursting chesnuts strew the ground. 
The dark -blue sloe, the ruddy haw, 
The trooping birds about them draw, 
Where spreads the common, bleak, and lone ; 
While bright, amid the hedge-row brown, 
The briar's scarlet fruits are seen, 
With tangled threads of tufted green, 
Where the robin, rustics say, 
Nightly loves his head to lay. 

Scarce a trace of verdure past 
Streaks the wood, or spots the waste ; 
Save that a ring of brighter sod 
Shows where the twilight elves have trod ; 
Save that the ivy's arms have wound 
Some antique oak's tall trunk around, 
Or evergreens, with dusky hue, 
Darken the landscape's gloomy view. 
Yet, amid the naked trees, 
Various tints the poet sees ; 



36 ODES. 

The silvery birch, the poplar dark, 
The plane-tree, with its mottled bark ; 
The beech, that, like a mourner, grieves, 
Retaining still its withered leaves ; 
And, where the copse its slope displays, 
Tipp'd with pink, the shrubby sprays. 

The river, once by fits betray 'd, 
Flashing through its lattic'd shade, 
Now, reveal'd to Day's broad beam, 
Hurries on, with turbid stream. 
Where its rapid eddies gush, 
Wildly nods the quivering rush ; 
And oft the wither'd leaf doth glide, 
Swiftly, down the swelling tide. 

Mute is every tuneful throat, 
That caroll'd blithe its woodland note. 
No more the skylark, chasing sorrow, 
To Aurora bids good morrow ; 
No more the thrush, with vesper lay, 
Sings lullaby to weary Bay; 
The busy swallow ne'er is seen 
Shadow'd on the sunny green ; 
Only the flirting, bead-ey'd wren 
Haunts the roothouse in the glen ; 
Or the redbreast, warbling low, 
Lightly flits from bough to bough. 



odes. 37 



Where the curling vapors chill, 
Coldly blue, yon eastern hill, 
Of all her radiant tresses shorn, 
Pale, unjoyous, comes the Morn. 
Yet, here and there, a feeble star 
Glimmers through the dawning air, 
Or, amid the meadows damp, 
Twinkles the cotter's early lamp. 
The wint'ry prospect opens slow, 
The ice-hung rock, the waste of snow, 
The spangled cot, the grove embost. 
In mockery of leaves, with frost. 
Earth, and all her pageantry, 
Whelm'd in Heav'n's white ruins, lie. 

Slanting through the wat'ry clouds. 
Where the Sun his forehead shrouds, 
Scarce a single, sickly ray 
Can pierce to glad the cheerless day. 
Feebly on the frozen stream 
Plays the ineffectual beam, 
Sweeps the hill, or dimly falls 
On the white villa's distant walls, 
Wanders up the gloomy glade, 
And, glancing on the pale cascade, 
(Where the baffled breeze no more 
Can catch the torrent's ice-bound roar) 



38 ODES. 

Gleams, reflected on the sight, 
In rainbow tints of frozen light. 

On the lake's frosted margin troop 
The thirsty herds in gather 'd group, 
And, with drooping aspect, there, 
Eye the wave, they cannot share. 
Hark ! the rude hind, with sturdy blow 
Bids the imprison'd waters flow ! 
Loud rings round, from rock to rock, 
In long repeat, the crackling shock ; 
O'er the wide forest echoes still, 
And dies to silence on the hill. 

Twilight now the landscape shrouds 
And rapidly the wreathy clouds 
Sweep across the sickly streak, 
Day had left on Evening's cheek. 
Shrill, along the chalky down, 
That the sea-beat cliff doth crown, 
The plover's and the curlew's scream 
Scare Meditation's idle dream. 
Seen afar, the stooping sail 
Scuds along before the gale : 
Now the billows thundering dash, 
Now rake the stones, with grating crash. 

Gather round the flaring fire ! 
Heap the crackling faggots higher ! 



ODES. 39 

Hark ! against the window-pane 

Drive the sharp sleet, and pattering rain ! 

Let the storm around us roar ! 

We shall feel our comforts more. 

Who shall make the cheek grow pale 

With a drear, and ghostly tale 

Of some sheeted form of air, ^ 

Gliding down the midnight stair ; > 

Of warning phantoms, that appear ) 

Just as the spirit flits away 

From its sin-worn mould of clay ; 

Till the eye, glancing oft behind, 

Looks for what it fears to find, 

And peers into the farthest gloom 

Of the half-enlighten'd room. 

Now, half- afraid, to bed we creep, 
And list the wild winds, till we sleep. 
First, whispering, murmuring, from afar 
Preludes their hollow note of war ; 
Nearer, nearer, by degrees, 
Wailing through the rustling trees, 
Louder, louder, grows their sound, ^ 

Till, from the rocking walls around, > 

Howling, bellowing, they rebound. ' 

Now, struggling in the chimney-top, 
They roar. Then all at once they drop ; 



40 ODES. 

And, like an echo, far away, 

A low, dull moan renews the fray. 

"Wake, wake, and join the jocund chase! 
Snows are fled, and Morn's sweet face 
Is peeping from a golden cloud : 
While the bugles, clear and loud, 
Rouse chanticleer, who joins the din, 
Drowsily, the roost within. 
Now, we meet the mountain-gale, 
Now, sweep along the lonely vale, 
Where, amid low, disjointed rocks, 
Scantly graze the scatter'd flocks, 
Or, perch'd on some rude fragment near, 
Curious eye our passing cheer, 
While, half in sport, and half in fear, 
The colt, unbroken to the rein, 
Leaps the ford, and scours the plain. 

Dark December, stern, and wild, 
Angry Winter's first-born child, 
Though, from thy keenly-piercing eye, 
The Loves, and timid Graces fly, 
Fancy, dauntless maid, unbinds 
Her tresses to your boisterous winds. 
Let gayer bards, with transport, sing 
Voluptuous Summer, laughing Spring, 
I will to the storm recite 
Thy lofty, and severe delight. 



ODES. 41 

I 



ODE IV. 



*HYDON HILL. 

Hydon, though the Muses* rill 
Never lav'd thy silent hill, 
Thou shalt my Parnassus be, 
While I raptur'd sing of thee. 
From gay Fancy's gorgeous bowers 
Pluck I now no flaunting flowers, 
For thy brow, I snatch a wreath, 
From thy wild, and native heath. 

Though to thy side no sheltering grove 
Win the stealthy step of Love ; 
Though a thorn, with ragged crest, 
Shield alone thy barren breast, 
In thy rudeness I can see 
Many a grace, that taketh me. 
As a dark, and frowning isle 
Makes the blue sea more brightly smile, 



* Qu. High down ? A conical hill in Surrey, to the 
south of Grodalming, overlooking the wolds of Surrey and 

Sussex. 



42 ODES. 

So thy rough, and steril ground 
Heightens Nature's wealth around. 

Oft, at balmy Evening mild, 
I have roam'd thy trackless wild, 
To mark the Sun, ere yet gone down, 
Tinge thy rich hues with mellower brown, 
And the sportive breezes stir 
The red-breast on the juniper, 
Ruffling his plumes, that caught a gleam 
From the broad orb's last-levell'd beam. 
Oft, when the filmy gossamere 
Hung, from heathy spear to spear, 
Its fairy banners, wrought anew 
With opal drops of quivering dew, 
I have sought thee, to inhale 
Health in every morning gale. 

Now, in Summer's noonday pride, 
Now I climb thy steepy side. 
Look not back, till, from the height, 
Burst the prospect on the sight ! 
Now on the summit rapt I stand, 
The centre of the circling land. 
See, around, above, below, 
What beauties blaze, what colours glow ! 
Blending, intersecting, meeting, 
Or in lengthen'd file retreating ; 



ODES. 43 

Slop'd, or, with abrupt abyss, 

Scoop'd into chalky precipice ; 

Smooth, or variously emboss'd, 

Bare, or with many a hedge-row cross'd, 

Tnnumerous rise the hills around, 

And shut the landscape's farthest bound. 

Swells, o'er all, the coping sky, 

How grand, how vast a canopy ! 

Above of deep cerulean hue, 

Low it bends to palest blue, 

And, on the horizon bright, 

Melts away in liquid white, 

Where clouds, of downy texture, spread 

Pillows meet for angel's head. 

Now the restless eye may rove 
From mead to mead, from grove to grove ; 
Now the village church it views 
Nested in its ancient yews ; 
Fields, with corn, or pasture, green, 
And stripes of barren heath between ; 
Villas, farms ; and, glimmering cool, 
The glassy pond, or rushy pool. 
Softly blue the distance fades 
In aerial lights, and shades. 
All, that a painter's eye can charm, 
All, that a poet's heart can warm, 



44 ODES. 

The soul, at one excursive glance, 
Seizes amid the wide expanse. 
Me an undefin'd delight 
Thrills, at the enchanting sight, 
And tears are trembling in mine eye, 
Children of speechless ecstasy. 

Where the vale appears to rise, 
And mingle with the meeting skies, 
Back'd by the chalk-pit's snowy hue, 
Guildford's turrets meet the view. 
Above, impends the castle hoar, 
Where Tradition's babbling lore 
Tells, that a Saxon king did keep 
The rightful heir in dungeon deep. 
On a rock, above the plain, 
Rises Catherine's ruin'd fane ; 
And, where yonder bold hill swells 
From out its deep-entangled dells, 
Martha boasts her house of prayer ; 
Sister-saints the maidens were, 
Who, a time-worn legend says, 
Themselves the hallow'd walls did raise, 
And a wondrous hammer, still, 
Tost, as they toil'd, from hill to hill. 
Far away, pale Hindhead frowns 
With level ridge of sun-burnt downs ; 



ODES. 45 

With pointed summit, steep and high, 
Towers fir-cinctur'd Crooksbury. 
Gazing there, the mind recals 
Waverley's old abbey-walls, 
Or sees the oak's rude branches wave 
O'er Lud's wild stream, and wizard cave. 
Below, like one vast wavy mead, 
The wooded plains of Sussex spread. 
Is't Fancy's cheat, or can the eye, 
Beyond, a gleam of sea descry ? 
Now I turn, where Hascombe vaunts 
Its beechen bowers, and Dryad haunts ; 
Now, where, on Ewhurst's breezy mound, 
Turn the tall windmill's broad vans round, 
And the distant tower of Leith 
Looks o'er the subject land beneath. 

Nearer as the eye returns, 
Fresh beauties, raptur'd, it discerns. 
Like the green, and sunny ocean, 
Waving with a gentle motion, 
The billowing barley, o'er the vale, 
Varies with the varying gale, 
While, in never-ending race, 
Light and shade each other chase, 
O'er its undulating face. 
See, where two hills embracing meet, 
And form a dingle at their feet, 



\ 



46 ODES. 

Screen'd by elms, and poplars tall, 
A cottage rears its humble wall. 
With rich variety opprest, 
There loves the lingering gaze to rest, 
As, when around the world we roam, 
Dearer is our simple home. 

Now the steep my steps descend, 
Now to the grassy dell I wend. 
How chang'd the prospect ! Naught is seen 
Save azure sky, and hill-side green, 
Where spreads the flock, whose tinkling bell 
Suits the lonely echoes well ; 
And the valley jocund rings, 
While the blithe turf-cutter sings. 

The Gipsy, while her infant crew 
Stain their lips with hurtles blue, 
Or busy stoop, a motley train, 
Where the mushrooms dot the plain, 
Uptears the dry heath's purple spire, 
To feed her mystic, midnight fire. 

Now I roam the cavern'd edge 
Of the sand-implanted hedge, 
Where the rabbits, in their play, 
Start across the hollow way. 
Now I bid the scene adieu, 
Turning, turning still, to view 



ODES. 47 

The last dim distant hills, that peep 
O'er the intervening steep. 

Oh, ye delicious solitudes, 
Of peace the only true abodes, 
Still charm my fancy, for to me 
Nature is true luxury ! 
More fair to me yon bells of heath, 
Than glowing India's gaudiest wreath ; 
More sweet the breeze, that sweeps the broom, 
Than all Arabia's soft perfume ; 
More bright the dewdrop, on its stems, 
Than rich Golconda's radiant gems. 
Then, since Nature, without cost, 
Gives all, that wealth herself can boast, 
Let me true to Nature prove, 
Talk with her, in glade, and grove ; 
By the babbling brook ; and still 
Woo her charms on Hydon Hill. 



48 ODES. 



ODE V. 

ON RELIGION. 

Where, Religion, dost thou dwell ? 
In the anchoret's rocky cell, 
Veil'd in cowl, and sable weeds, 
Telling out thy hourly beads ? 
In the convent's gloomy bound, 
Where, the listening vaults around, 
Echo ne'er did aught repeat, 
Save the dull tread of passing feet ; 
Where eternal Silence reigns, 
And the speechless tongue enchains, 
Where, like ghosts, the pallid throng 
In death-like stillness glide along ? 
Or lov'st thou more the stately pile, 
Where music swells along the aisle, 
Where, on high, and solemn nights, 
Thy most imposing pomp invites ; 
When the agitated air 
Quivers with countless tapers' flare, 



ODES. 49 

Through which the storied windows dim 
Confus'd, in blended colours, swim, 
And fretted roof more lofty seems, 
Obscurely seen by waving gleams ? 
Or from these pageants wilt thou steal, 
To bless the poor man's stinted meal ; 
Or crown with glory his white hair, 
In the rustic house of prayer 1 
Or shall the Heaven's bare canopy 
Thy nobler oratory be ? 

Where the happy shepherd boy 
In his solitary joy, 
With his quiet flock around, 
And his Bible on the ground, 
Stretch'd upon the thymy sod, 
Lifts his simple thoughts to God, 
In the rocky Highland dell, 
There, Religion, thou dost dwell. 






50 ODES. 



ODE VL 

THE VERNAL EXTASY.* 

I. 

Come away ! Come away ! 
Flow'rs are fresh, and fields are gay ! 
Spring her early charms discovers ; 

Now the yellow butterfly, 
Herself a flying primrose, hovers 

O'er the primrose restlessly. 
I will show thee where to choose 
Violets of unnumber'd hues, 
(Glittering fresh with vernal rain) 
From the blue of deepest stain, 
To those, that spells of frolic sprite 
Have bleach'd into unsullied white. 
I will show thee where to cull 
Wild hyacinths, as beautiful 
As he, who gave them their sweet name 
With a dearly-purchas'd fame, 



The title only is taken from that of an Ode by Schiller. 



ODES. 51 

The youth, Apollo lov'd and slew, 
(All, I ween, his favours rue.) 
I will lead thee, where the star 
Of copses glitters from afar, 
The virgin-leaf 'd anemone ; 
Or we to greener banks will flee, 
Where the slender harebell pale 
Stoops bowing to the gusty gale. 

II. 

Come away ! Come away ! 
Morning doffs her wimple gray ! 
And her bashful face discloses, 

Freshly bath'd in rainbow dews, 
Blushing, like the virgin roses, 

That unite the rival hues. 
We will climb the hill's steep brow, 
And o'ergaze the woods below, 
Where the tops of various trees 
Sink, fore-shorten'd by degrees, 
And o'er the wintry boughs is seen 
Spring's first, light powdering of green. 
Or, in secret dell, we'll view 
The budding hawthorn's tender hue, 
Contrasted with the relics sere 
Of the sad-departed year. 

d 2 



52 ODES. 

I mark'd one in the parky glade 
'Neath a broad oak's lofty shade, 
Rearing high its graceful head, 
With tassell'd woodbine garlanded : 
It almost seem'd a living thing, 
Come forth to greet the breathing Spring. 
Haste thee then, for fiery June 
Will tarnish all this freshness soon. 

III. 

Come away ! Come away ! 
Calmly dies the golden day, 
To the dell, and shady fountain, 

Though the cheering Sun be set, 
Fringing yonder western mountain, 

Upward glance his glories yet. 
Palely clear, Night's earliest star 
Rises o'er the woods afar, 
Growing momently more bright 
With the slow decay of light, 
Ennobling, like a matchless gem, 
Meek Twilight's dusky diadem. - 
Now a soften'd darkness spreads 
About the trees' umbrageous heads. 
The bat, on free and frolic wing, 
Is with Zephyr gamboling. 



ODES. 53 

The blackbird's rich delicious note 
From the tangled copse doth float; 
On the poplar, as he sings, 
The throstle claps his gladsome wings. 
Through joyous Nature's wide domain, 
Lake, river, forest, mountain, plain, 
Fragrance, love, and harmony 
Kindle the vernal extasy. 



54 ODES. 



ODE VII. 

DRAMATIC. 

Destiny enters, and sings. 

Ye Passions, and ye Powers, who rule 
The mind of man with sway severe. 

And form it in your stormy school, 
You I summon to appear ! 

The Passions enter, and sing in Chorus, 

Mistress of events below, 

Wherefore hast thou call'd us here? 

DESTINY. 

That ye might yon babe endow. 
Just enter'd this perturbed sphere. 

First, approach, and, from this urn, 
The number'd lots, in order, take, 

Then, each, in his appointed turn, 
His magic minstrelsy awake. 



ODES. 55 

And, to guide your measures, learn, 

This dark Oracle is given, 
" Peace his anxious suit shall spurn, 

" Until he seek her gifts from Heaven." 

They draw the lots, after which, Fear, Sorrow, Sfc. 
sing together. 

Huzza, huzza, the boy is ours ! 
He is for the darker Powers ! 
For, lo, the wildest, and the worst 
Must endow the infant first ! 
Come, tumultuous Spirits, come, 
Weave the murky web of doom ! 
Breathe your mutter'd curses deep 
O'er his still unconscious sleep. 
Soon he ne'er shall slumber so ! 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 



By the knocking of the heart, 
By the shivering thrills, that dart, 
Thence, along the quivering frame 
By the dread, without a name ; 
By the busy brain, that pries 
Into forbidden mysteries ; 



ODES. 

By the grave, that yawns below, 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 

SORROW. 

By the burning tear, or worse, 
By the blasting, tearless curse ! 
By the sigh, he still must heave, 
Yet ne'er his weary breast relieve. 
By the keen, convulsive throe, 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 

HOPE. 

Did ye mark that I am here, 
Life's radiant sun, his soul to cheer? 
My arc of promise I will throw, 
Bright, o'er the darkest clouds of woe. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

One breath of mine, Enchantress fair, 
Shall scatter all thy hues to air. 
Thus, the same doom we both bestow, 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 

LOVE. 

Never shalt thou find a being 
With thy Fancy's dream agreeing, 



ODES. 57 

Yet to love shall ever be 
Thy Nature's strong necessity. 
Vainly shalt thou strive to cheat 
Thy spirit with the fond deceit, 
That others can with thee combine, 
And love thee with a love like thine. 
Still shall thy breast in secret boil, 
Thy thoughts upon themselves recoil, 
Driv'n back by words, that answer not 
To all, thy depth of feeling sought ; 
Baffled by looks, that ne'er reply 
To the full language of thine eye. 
And, oh, how quickly shalt thou mark 
Affection's scarcely-fading spark ! 
The slightest gesture, glance, or tone, 
Seen, noted, felt, by thee alone, 
Shall, to thy quicken'd sense, betray 
Love's least perceptible decay ; 
Yea, ere the alter'd heart confess, 
Ev'n to itself, the ardor less. 
Then thyjarr'd mind, too clearly view'd, 
Shall seem thy temper's sullen mood, 
And ever, more, and more, estrange 
Those, who began the bitter change. 
Yet all the fault still thine shall seem, 
Caprice, or Fancy's wayward dream ; 

d 5 



58 ODES. 

Since mark'd their change by thee alone, 
By each more casual eye thine own. 
These woes I bring ; and if, fond boy, 
Thou snatch from me a transient joy, 
Learn, ev'n my joys in tumult flow, 
Peace thou canst not, shalt not, know ! 



MEMORY. 

In the soft guise of pensive Pleasure, 

I will creep into his breast, 
Meet him in each hour of leisure, 

And steal, and steal away his rest. 

In some deep cave, with me retir'd, 
He shall fold his arms, and sigh, 

The future shall not be desir'd, 
The present shall not fix his eye. 

Fair occasions shall be crost, 

While on the past his soul shall muse, 
And, as I tell of moments lost, 

Many more he still shall lose. 

Yet the more I work him ill, 
He shall clasp me closer still. 



ODES. 59 



Am I not the subtlest foe ? 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 



DISEASE 

Health, away, for he is mine ! 

Ev'n from this hour thy claim resign ! 

Lo, I give, my birthday boon, 

The frame susceptive, which most soon 

My skilful fingers can untune. 

Spectres, that confess my sway, 

See your victim, seize your prey ! 

Consumption, lay thy wily train, 

Fever, fire each throbbing vein ! 

Horror, on his midnight couch, 

Dark, formless hag, in silence crouch. 

Banish — yet no, let Sleep attend, 

But not as Sorrow's balmy friend. 

Let him start, from dreams of ill, 

To waking visions, direr still, 

With darken'd soul, and glazing eye, 

Fix'd intent on vacancy. 

When his heart would blithely bound 

To scenes of pleasure, smiling round, 

I will be a cloud between, 

Ev'n when unthought of, dimly seen. 



60 ODES. 

By these tortures, sure though slow, 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 

GUILT. 

Thee the Passions, fierce and wild, 
Shall guide to my unhallow'd cell, 
Where the frantic Pleasures dwell : 
By their mad delights beguil'd, 
Ending still in bitter woe, 
Peace thou canst not, shalt not, know ! 

REMORSE. 

Then will I fix my stings within, 

And haunt thee with the thought of sin. 

Whither should the guilty flee 

From his weight of misery ? 

When each blithely-warbling bird, 

In Childhood's hour as blithely heard, 

Quickens the distracting sense 

Of departed innocence ? 

When the Sun, so warm and bright, 

Shines upon a mental night ; 

And his peaceful sister-star 

Beams upon the bosom's war ? 

What his tortures shall allay, 

When he would, but cannot, pray? 



ODES. 61 

From the damning past would flee 
Into the dark futurity, 
Yet from the future turns aghast 
Back upon the damning past ? 
Whither should the guilty flee 
From his weight of misery ? 
Canst thou cleanse the sullied snow ? 
Peace he cannot/ shall not, know ! 

DESPAIR. 

Last of the gorgon train, and worst, I come, 
And lay my icy fingers on his heart. 
Joy withers at the touch, and Grief grows dumb, 
But in her silence points a keener dart. 

Loathing to live, yet unprepar'd to die, 
Slow shall he sink to apathy profound, 
Till, as the last faint hopes of mercy die, 
My winding-sheet shall wrap his soul around. 



Such peace is mine. Such peace will I bestow ; 
But other peace he cannot, shall not, know ! 



They all unite in Chorus. 
'Tis done ! Tis done ! The web is spun, 
Stampt with our curses, black as night ; 



i 



62 ODES. 

O'er its texture, deep, and dun, 

What shall fling a gleam of light ? 
Then wide around the chorus throw, 
Peace he cannot, shall not, know, 

DESTINY. 

Pause; for your triumph is not yet complete. 
Ye milder Spirits, wake the warbled string ! 
Ye, who the weary hours of sorrow cheat, 
What more benignant gifts have ye to bring ? 

JOY. 

Though a doom thus dark be thine, 
Yet thou shalt not always pine ; 
I, too, in thy youthful heart 
Oft will claim a rapturous part, 
And, though few thy pleasures be, 
Exalt them all to extasy. 
In one moment, thou shalt know 

More concentrated delight, 
Than others through whole years, that flow 

Ever peaceful, ever bright. 
And, thy woes to recompense, 

Thy pleasures shall be all thine own, 
Not the fleeting joys of sense, 

Which, when at their height, are flown, 



ODES. 63 

But such as grow from day to day, 
And none can give, or take away ; 
Joys from Nature's self that spring, 
Like her, for ever varying. 
The sun, the sky, the brook, the breeze, 
Shall wake in thee wild sympathies, 
And to thy breast more transport bring, 
Than kingdoms can afford their king. 

FANCY. 

How shalt thou start, in pleas'd amaze, 
When, by my daring hand unveil'd^ 
From each ungifted eye conceal'd, 
The whole unreal world shall flash upon thy gaze ! 

When the palace of my art 

Its opal gates shall wide expand, 

And all, that I can best impart, 
Tempt thee to my blissful land ! 

Melting murmurs, lays Elysian, 

Now his nearer steps invite, 
And a wondrous world of vision, 

Ever moving round in light. 
But, as he treads the rich, enchanted ground, 
O'erpow'r'd with dazzling glory, bursting sound, 



54 ODES. 

On golden flowers his languid form he throws, 
And drinks, in my fond arms, the Lethe of repose. 

MUSIC. 

I too on my soothing breast 

Oft his aching head will lay, 
Sweetly soothe his cares to rest, 

And sing his woes away. 

Oh, how his inmost soul 

Shall vibrate to my voice, 
Where the deep organ's thunders roll, 

And solemnly rejoice. 

First, 
Faint, and low, 
The gradual numbers flow ; 
Then, stealing, swelling, on the ear, 
Rise the successive notes, more loud and clear, 
Till all is blissful harmony around, 
And the full streams unite in all the pomp of sound. 

PAIKTING. 

I to thy hand my magic pencil give, 

At whose warm touch the canvass learns to live. 



ODES. 65 

But chief endow thee with the gifted eye, 
Each latent charm of Nature to descry, 
And know the combinations, and the power 
Of hill, vale, forest, light, shade, sun, and shower. 
Whate'er the loom can weave, the chisel trace, 
Proportion's loveliness, and Beauty's grace. 
Oft shall my visions lighter moments bring, 
When long Disease has fetter'd Time's slow wing. 

POETRY. 

Ye Powers, and varied Passions, ye 

Have but prepared the boy for me ! 

Lo, I claim him for my own, 

He is mine, and mine alone ! 

Nor need I draw new gifts from Heaven, 

I only give a voice to all, that ye have given. 

As o'er his breast each passion steals, 

He shall sing whate'er he feels, 

And never pour his griefs in vain, 

For, singing, he shall soothe his pain. 

He shall slight the world for me, 

From its pomps, and pleasures, flee, 

For my sake dare to be despis'd, 

Nor understood, nor duly priz'd, 

But he shall find a world in me, 

True wealth, true fame, true dignity, 



66 ODES. 

Not, as for triflers with my power, 

The light amusement of an hour, 

Now woo'd, now slighted, only sought 

To fill some blank of idle thought. 

With his being I will blend, 

And be companion, mistress, friend. 

Ah, thou art waking at my voice ! 

Ev'n now it bids thy heart rejoice ! 

And more devoted heart than thine 

Ne'er have I consecrated mine. 

Now I touch thy lips with fire, 

O'er thy cradle hang my lyre, 

And draw my witching wand around thee, 

Now the potent spell hath bound thee. 

DESTINY. 

Hark, what celestial music meets mine ear, 
Lo, what full glory bursts upon my gaze ? 
I see, I see, a radiant form appear, 
Leading a Seraph, rob'd in milder rays ! 

Joy from his pinions shakes the soiling dew, 
The darker Passions, cowering, shrink away, 
While Hope, who mourn'd among the frantic crew, 
Looks up, and, smiling, points to realms of day. 



ODES. 67 

I know thee by thy majesty serene, 

Religion, brightest of the heavenly throng 

I know thee, Peace, by thy sweet dove-like mien, 

Daughter of her, who leads thy steps along. 

RELIGION!, 

Poor wayworn Pilgrim of tumultuous years, 
Heavily laden, wearily oppressed, 
Come unto me, and I will dry thy tears, 
Come unto me, and I will give thee rest ! 

Can Fear, or Sorrow thrill thy throbbing heart, 
God thy delight, Omnipotence thy shield ? 
Can Disappointment hurl her deadly dart, 
When Hope has soar'd to Heaven's immortal field? 

Oh, how can Passion, blighted, or betray 'd, 
Or Friendship's broken vow have power to move, 
When all thy bosom, temper'd, and allay 'd, 
Shall yield to purer, to supremer Love ? 

Can fierce Remorse o'erwhelm thy prostrate soul, 
When Mercy prompts the soft, repentant tear ? 
Can dull Despair thy sullen breast controul, 
When Heaven's glad tidings meet thy ravish'd ear ? 



68 ODES. 

From that last foe triumphantly I give 
The glorious promise of a blest release ; 
Then from my hand thy destined bride receive, 
Whom Death shall wed to thee for ever — Peace. 

Chorus of Hope, Joy, §c. 
'Tis done, 'tis done ! The web is spun, 

Stampt with our blessings, pure and bright, 
And all its texture, deep and dun, 

Is tum'd to Heaven's serenest light. 

Triumph, triumph ! Now fulfill'd 
The Oracle, that Fate had given ! 

Peace to his anxious suit shall yield, 

For he has sought her gifts from Heaven. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 



ANASTASIUS TO HIS SLEEPING CHILD/ 

Sleep, oh, sleep, my dearest one, 
While I watch thy placid slumbers, 

And pour, in low and pensive tone, 

To lull thee, wild and plaintive numbers. 

If my tears thy pillow steep, 

Sleep ! Thou canst not see me weep ! 

Thy cheek is pillow'd on mine arm, 
As if secure that thee it shielded, 

And there a flush more deeply warm 
The pressure to its tint hath yielded : 

Thy hand, which mine did lately clasp, 

Dwells there, relaxing in its grasp. 



See Mr. Hope's novel of Anastasius. 



72 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I love to view thy beauteous face, 

To cheer me through the day's long toiling 
I love its every change to trace, 

Shaded by thought, in pleasure smiling : 
Amid the world, with pride I see 
All eyes do homage unto thee : 

But, oh, this hour is most, most dear, 
When, even from the friendly stealing, 

I seek my only pleasure here, 

And fix on thee my every feeling ; 

When thou dost seem all, all mine own, 

To live, breathe, smile, for me alone. 

And, oh, to guard thee thus from ill, 
No other joy can rank before it, 

When ev'n thy sleep seems conscious still 
How true a love is watching o'er it ! 

Such perfect confidence is shown 

In this defenceless hour alone. 

Sleep, thou canst not know the love, 
Which passes all of outward showing, 

Much may my looks, words, actions prove, 
But how much more untold is glowing ! 

And now, in silent loneliness, 

It passes all, I most express. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 73 

A tender sadness melts my soul, 

And Memory, with her train attending, 

Seems all her pages to unrol, 

While Hope her airy dreams is blending. 

My tears are sweet ; yet see not thou, 

Lest thou mistake their drops for woe. 

I think of all I am, the while, 

Of guilt's dark hours, and life all blasted, 
And thou the only thing to smile 

Upon the heart, so wildly wasted : 
Oh, who can tell the rush of thought, 
With joy, grief, rapture, anguish, fraught ! 

But, with a thrill of keener pain, 

A shuddering dread has now o'ercome me, 

That dries those kindly tears again ; 

Oh, should the future tear thee from me ! 

Ah me, ah me ! I hold thee now ! 

Shall I ask ever, where art thou ? 

I cannot call thee back again, 

Nor o'er again these joys be living, 
And thousand worlds were pledg'd in vain, 

To give what now this hour is giving ; 
But I shall writhe in fruitless woe, 
With pangs, which all too well I know. 



74 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Yet wherefore thus perversely run 
To boded ill from present pleasure ? 

I know not why ; but lives there one, 
Who binds his life in one rich treasure, 

Whom the wild thought has never crost, 

u What should I feel, were this but lost ?" 

Hark, his lips move ; and gently frame, 
In dreamy slumber, words half-broken. 

Ah, was not that ? It is my name, 

Which by those cherub lips is spoken ! 

I feel a thrill of vivid joy, 

To know that I his thoughts employ. 

He fear'd, that, ere his eyes could close, 
A weary vigil mine should number, 

Dear innocent ! he little knows 

How quickly youth shakes hands with slumber ! 

Ev'n ere my voice had soften'd, thou 

Wert in oblivion, deep as now. 

Now gently I withdraw my arm, 

Fearful thy quiet sleep of breaking ; 

Thou giv'st no token of alarm, 

And pleas'd I see thee not awaking ; 

The taper shaded with my hand, 

Gazing on thee awhile I stand. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 75 

How beautiful in his repose ! 

The long dark lash the white lid fringing, 
The rich hair clustering on his brows, 

And the blue vein his forehead tinging. 
What childish innocence displayed, 
Ev'n in that hand so careless laid ! 

When to my own near couch I steal, 
I'll listen still to hear thee breathing, 

Till, with that lullaby, I feel 

Sleep's dewy mantle o'er me wreathing : 

How soothing is the sound, how dear, 

Which tells me what I love is near ! 

But first, ere I can calm recline, 

In silent prayer I kneel beside thee, 
And sue each blessing may be thine, 

Long forfeited, or still denied me. 
Now one last kiss, with caution given, 
And I resign my watch to Heaven. 



e2 



I 

76 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



CHILDHOOD. 



I wonder'd, in my childhood, that men should say to 

me, 
" This is thy season of delight, from care and trouble 

free, 
" And never canst thou know such happiness again;" 
It seem'd as if they mock'd my bosom's silent pain. 

And often, when my cheeks with bitter tears were wet, 

They cried, " Ah happy age, that weeps, and can for- 
get!" 

Their words were strange to me : how little did they 
know 

That I could feel a sense of deep, enduring woe ! 

Yet, as it is, I find they spoke but sooth, 

And learn that manhood must be sad, ev'n after saddest 

youth, 
That sorrow has its bliss, which after-years consume, 
As ev'n the nightshade, in the blast, may lose its vernal 

bloom. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Perhaps he mourns thee less, to whom thy mirth, and play 
Were as the shining lapse of one long summer-day ; 
More lovely seem the wreaths, that bloom on ruin'd 

towers, 
And brightest is the blue sky seen, when it severs 

thunder-showers. 

Memory, on my couch, when the Wind's wild fingers 

grasp, 
With the fury of a fiend, the rattling window-clasp, 
Rock'd to thy dreams, reclin'd with sleepless eye, 

1 talk with thee, at midnight, of the days that are gone 

by! 

And, when the storms of Autumn, in their wildness as 

they roll, 
With passion, thought, and poetry, imbue my inmost 

soul, 
I hear thee in the rustling leaves ; I feel thee in the blast, 
I see thee in the cloud, thou spirit of the past. 

But, oh, if Memory have a voice, it lately spoke to me, 
When I heard the old school-clock, that chimes so 

mournfully ! 
Each other voice may alter, but Time's doth still remain 
Unchang'd and stern, as caring not for human joy or 

pain. 



78 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

I thought of the time, when first its sullen tone 
Came strange upon mine ear, as I sate, and wept alone; 
I thought of the time, when it knock'd against my 

heart, 
As last I heard it, like a friend, from whom I griev'd 

to part. 

How oft it seem'd the knell of school-boy mirth and 

glee, 
How oft it seem'd the tongue of joy, when from toil it 

set me free ! 
How bounded my heart, when it bade me seek once 

more 
The elm, I lov'd to climb or the river's happy shore ! 

And still it had chim'd on in the interval between, 
While I was wandering far away thro' many a changing 

scene, 
For others it had chim'd, although for me in vain, 
As never, never more it shall sound to me again. 

Awake ! These thoughts are dreams ; arouse thee, 

O my soul, 
And, since the past is past, let the future be thy goal ; 
And, if this life no more can give what once it gave, 
There is a light from heaven, which shines upon the 

grave. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 79 



THE POET'S PASSION. 



O think not, soul of warlike fire, 
That Glory thee alone hath beckon'd, 

That thou, whom Honour's dreams inspire, 
Most years of future fame hast reckon'd ! 

There is an ardor fiercer far 

Than all thy dreams, or deeds of war. 

O think not, thou, who high would'st climb 
To greet Dominion's rising sun, 

Thy visions are the most sublime, 
That ever yet the fancy won ! 

There is a prouder, loftier hope, 

That towers above thy daring scope. 

O think not, thou, whose gold is hoarded, 
Whose bags with crowded treasure burst, 

That Nature has to thee afforded 
The spirit's most .insatiate thirst ! 

There is an avarice, far beyond 

Ev'n thine, when most intensely fond. 



80 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

O dream not thou, whose every vein 
Is throbbing wild with fever'd love, 

Thy mad delight, thy pleasing pain, 
Each other transport soars above ! 

There is a passion, which can thrill 

The soul with rapture wilder still. 

Warrior, chief, miser, lover, all, 

Come, bow your souls before the Bard ! 

For present recompense ye call, 
He for the future's high reward : 

Or cold your sculptur'd fame survives, 

While his, warm-glowing, breathes, and lives. 

To conquer with persuasive arts, 

When, soldier, all thy laurels wither, 

To build an empire over hearts, 

When king, and empire sink together, 

To seize on Fame's enduring ore, 

When spendthrifts waste the miser's store ; 

These are the aims, the hopes, the thirst, 

Which through the Bard's wild bosom shiver 

In secret born, in silence nurst, 

But, oh, more deep than silent river ! 

And fraught with raptures far above 

The hopes, the fears, the bliss of love. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 81 



TO THE SETTING SUN.* 



Him have we seen, the greenwood side along, 
As o'er the heath we hied, our labour done, 

Oft, as the woodlark piped his farewell song, 
With wistful eyes, pursue the setting sun. 

Gray. 



Farewell, farewell ! to others give 
The light, thou tak'st from me ; 

Farewell, farewell ! bid others live 
To joy, or misery. 

To distant climes my fancy flies, 
Where now thy kindling beams 

On other woods, and wilds arise, 
And shine on other streams. 



* The stanza, prefixed to this poem, suggested the succeed- 
ing train of ideas. It contains so much true poetry, so much 
tenderness, and so much beauty, that I am surprised Gray 
should omit it in the corrected copy of his elegy. 



82 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Indian leaves his hut of reeds, 
And bounds along the dew ; 

Or down the rapid river speeds, 
Pois'd in his light canoe. 

Perchance, some exile, on the strand, 

Awaits thy coming ray, 
As thou, from his dear native land, 

Some tidings could'st convey. 

More welcome still thy blessed light 
Gleams on the stranded wreck, 

Where mariners, the live-long night, 
Cling to the shatter'd deck. 

Now may'st thou bid fond lovers part, 
Or shine upon their bliss, 

Behold a blithe or breaking heart, 
The first, or latest kiss. 

Haply, thy hated beams renew 
The tear, that sleep had dried, 

And mourners, sick'ning at their view, 
Remember who has died. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 83 

Shine on in other worlds; but, oh, 

Thou wilt not, canst not, see, 
'Mid all the sons of men, below, 

One being like to me ! 

Say, breathes there one, who, at this hour, 

Beholds thy glories shine, 
And owns thy strangely-thrilling power, 

With passion deep as mine ? 

How soft, how tender a repose 

O'er Nature sheds its balm, 
Like Sorrow, mellowing, at its close, 

To Resignation's calm ! 

While man's last murmur, hush'd to rest, 

Steals gradual from the ear, 
As the world's tumult, from a breast, 

Where Heav'n alone is dear. 



O'er all my soul seems gently shed 
A kindred, soften'd light : 

I think of hopes, that long have fled, 
And scarcely mourn their flight. 



84 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Now does thy car descend beneath 
The boundary of our skies, 

And sheds upon the purpled heath 
Its last, and deepest dies. 

Behind the tall fir's sable trunk 
The half-orb lingers still, 

But now its latest curve is sunk 
Below the dark-blue hill. 

I gaze, as if thou wert not gone, 

Or as my gifted eye 
Could follow too where thou art flown . 

And still thy path descry. 

To calmer realms thou seem'st to go, 
I would pursue thy flight, 

As if nor care, nor pain, nor woe, 
Could track thy steps of light. 

Once more farewell ! Another day, 

To all, or dark, or glad, 
Fleets with thy vanish'd orb away, 

And am I pleas'd, or sad ? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 85 

I know not. My full soul to speak, 

All words their aid deny ; 
But, oh, the smile is on my cheek, 

The tear is in mine eye ! 



THE WALL-FLOWER. 

The rose, and lily blossom fair, 
But all unmeet for Sorrow's child ; 

They deck the bower, and gay parterre, 
As if for Mirth alone they smiled. 

The cowslip nods upon the lea, 

And, where wild wreaths the green lane dress, 
The woodbine blooms, but not for me, 

For these are haunts of Happiness. 

I will not seek the mossy bed, 

Where violets court soft, vernal showers, 
For Quiet there reclines her head, 

And Innocence is gathering flowers. 



86 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

The Wall-flower only shall be mine ; 

Its simple faith is dear to me ; 
To roofless tower, and prostrate shrine, 

It clings with patient constancy, 

And, prodigal of love, blooms on, 
Though all unseen its beauties die, 

And, though for desert gales alone, 
Breathes fragrance rich- as Araby. 

Oh, there appears a generous scorn 
Of all requital in its choice ! 

The thousand flowers, that earth adorn, 
In earth's exuberant stores rejoice ; 

It only asks the freshening dew, 

Imparting all, where naught is given, 

Rais'd above earth, as if it drew 
Its only nutriment from Heaven. 

O thou, whose love is all to rne, 
'Tis for thy sake I love the flower ! 

As truly it resembles thee, 

As I the lone, and ruin'd tower. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 87 

Thou know'st that, in my desert halls, 
The pride of youth, and hope is o'er, 

That, sunk, defac'd, my crumbling walls 
Repose, or shelter yield no more ; 

Yet, on this dark, and dreary pile, 

Thy Love its fragrant wreaths has hung, 

And all it asks is still to smile, 

Bloom, fade, and die, where once it clung. 



THE LONELY HEART. 

Ah, little deems the blind, dull crowd, 
When gazing on a tranquil brow, 

What thoughts, and feelings unavow'd, 
What fiery passions lurk below ! 

That, while the tongue performs its part, 
And custom's trivial phrase will say, 

On Fancy's wings the lonely heart 
Fleets to some region far away ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Feeds sweetly on some chosen theme, 
Holds converse with the dearly-lov'd, 

Weaves the light tissue of a dream, 

Or wanders, where we once have rov'd. 

As the wild winds, from their own lyre, 
Draw sounds beyond the touch of Art, 

So Nature only can inspire 
The music of a lonely heart. 

He, in whose silent breast it beats, 
From thronging cities, will repair 

To Solitude's sequester'd seats, 
And woo majestic Nature there. 

When rave her billowy gales around, 
And shake the tree, and sweep the hill. 

He loves their feeling, and their sound, 
They suit a spirit, wilder still. 

He loves to gaze the starry sky, 
Or Ocean's heaving plain to view, 

Where no dull barrier checks the eye, 
And feels his soul as boundless too. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 89 

When, round the moon, each broken cloud 
Takes every hue of light, and shade, 

Oft tinted like the gleamy shroud, 

Which Autumn on the woods has laid ; 



When, rising, on the distant waves 
A long pale line of light she throws, 

He wanders by the ocean-caves, 

And strange, disordered transport knows. 

Oft too, at eve, his eye will turn 
To alpine clouds amid the west, 

Where gorgeous colours richly burn, 
By the sun's parting glance imprest. 

There, with the spirits of the air, 
His spirit travels, pleas'd or griev'd, 

Shapes out a thousand visions there, 
And weeps at what itself conceiv'd. 

To him will music's every tone 

Yield bliss, beyond the vulgar joy, 

Nor idly please his ear alone, 
But all his wakeful soul employ. 



90 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Lo, at her spells, before his view 

What glorious, airdrawn shapes arise, 

What scenes, of more than mortal hue, 
Dazzle his soul's delighted eyes ! 

Oft, as the changeful measures flow, 
He frames some wild, accordant tale, 

Now soars to joy, now sinks to woe, 
As the notes triumph, or bewail. 

Say, would he turn from these pure joys, 
- For all, that Pomp, or Power have known? 
To them he leaves gaudes, sceptres, toys, 
Content to call his mind his own. 



ON 

LEAVING A FAVOURITE PLACE OF RESIDENCE. 

Farewell, lov'd spot, from whose deep groves, and 
dells, 

My Muse her fairest landscapes has portray'd ; 
Whence busy Memory to her sacred cells 

Her dearest, holiest treasures has convey 'd ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 91 

No more, when Nature, starting from her sleep 
At Spring's glad touch, throws off her snowy shroud, 

What time, slow-kindling o'er the fir-crown'd steep, 
Morn's line of crimson skirts the dark -blue cloud, 



Shall I explore the winding vale, unseen, 

Where the young birds first lisp their faltering tune, 

To mark the early grove's delicious green, 
That fades, like youthful happiness, so soon ; 

Or peer into each deep, and dark recess, 

Where last year's leaves their yellow carpet spread, 

And broad-bough'd oaks scarce need their vernal dress 
To form a vaulted ceiling over head. 

No more shall I beguile the summer heat 

Where the green pathway hems the sedgy stream, 

O'er which the maple's jealous branches meet, 

Shut out the world, and quench the noontide beam. 

There, on the marge, with porch-overshadow 'd door, 
Stands a lone cot, amid embowering groves, 

With bright green moss, and houseleek mottled o'er, 
And all the varied hues, that Painting loves. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Low bend its herbs, and flowerets from the bank, 
Nor distant far, on rudely-shapen staves, 

A rustic bridge extends its single plank, 
And throws its image on the passing waves. 

Ev'n the old whetstone, with wild weeds o'erspread, 
The ancient fruit-trees, that fantastic throw 

Their twining arms above the grass-grown shed, 
A rural beauty on the scene bestow. 

No more, when Autumn's blustering day is past, 
And the rude gales on Evening's bosom die, 

When liquid clearness swells th' aerial west, 
And trees seem pencil'd on the amber sky. 

My pensive way, slow-musing, shall I take 
Beneath the willows' arching colonnade, 

Tracing the brook, till, widening to a lake. 
It sleeps expanded o'er the level glade. 

There, from the lonely forge, a column dark,- 
Oft, streaming, rose upon the tranquil air, 

With many a ruddy, momentary spark, 

Quench'd like the bright lapse of a glancing star. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 93 

The wild-duck, seldom from her haunt allur'd, 
Where rose the tree-crown'd island from the wave, 

The shallow punt, among the rushes moor'd, 
Peculiar wildness to the landscape gave. 



At midnight, in my studious cell, no more, 
Pleas'd shall I hear the wintry tempest rush, 

When wild winds, prison'd in the oak-wood, roar, 
Now bellowing howl, now sink with sighing hush : 

Or mark the Moon, behind the mountain ash 
Arise, then dimly wade through vapours damp, 

Like a lone bark, which, where the dull waves dash, 
Slow-gliding, lifts its solitary lamp. 

Here, could I bound my hopes, forget my fears, 
And calmly float along life's silent stream, 

Unmindful of the quiet lapse of years, 

Books all my world, and Nature all my theme. 

But Virtue dwells not, though of peaceful mind, 
With dreaming Indolence, or sensual Ease, 

She spreads her sail, exulting, to the wind, 
And dares the conflict of tempestuous seas. 



94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Then fare thee well, my haven of repose, 
A long, perchance a last, farewell to thee ! 

" The world is all before me, where to choose," 
But thou, alas, art Eden still to me ! 



THE BLISS OF SLEEP. 



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Ao£w ■, xxnTsp ax ex wv i £ X SiV ' 

Vv-^puv /xsv, oifJKXt, rep-^iv' aXX' oy.wg j3apoj 

Vvyv\$ 0L7TOL\n\0tY\V OLV. 

Eui'ipidis Alcesiis. 



When Sleep has fetter'd this dull clay, 
Ah, sure, releas'd, the spirit flies 

Far, from its earthy cell, away, 
And snatches all, that day denies ! 

Tis then the bounds of time recede, 
The past must, then, its spoils restore, 

The bars of fate no more impede, 
And distance can divide no more. 



5 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 95 

We see the face, our restless glance, 

Unveil'd by slumber, asks in vain ; 
We press the hand, which we, perchance, 

While waking, ne'er shall press again. 

I 

The face, the form of one held dear 

Day-dreaming Memory may portray, 
Or whisper soft in Fancy's ear 

The voice of one, far, far away ; 

But this can ne'er afford relief 

To those keen pangs, which absence gives, 
The fleeting shadow mocks our grief, 

It does not breathe, it never lives : , 



It only wrings the soul anew, 
Convuls'd with ineffectual pain, 

To think we may not, cannot view 
That face, or hear that voice again 

But, Sleep, thy fond, deceptive art 
Can all the warmth of life supply, 

To shadow, substance can impart, 
To fancy's dreams, reality. 



96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Dawn of the liberty complete, 

When from its bonds the soul shall soar, 
And, in immortal mansions, meet 

Those, whom it loves, to part no more ! 



LINES. 



IN IMITATION OF THE OLD POETS. 

In a herber* green, at the break of day, 
As stretch'd on a bank of flowers I lay, 
Methought the brooks, and gales did say, 

In Spring is pleasaunce ; in Spring is pleasaunce. 

The lamb was frisking along the vale, 
The colt was bounding adown the dale ; 
All seemed to tell the joyous tale, 

In Mirth is pleasaunce ; in Mirth is pleasaunce. 

The merry, merry birds, in airy ring, 
Pursued eachone his mate, on wanton wing, 
And still it seemed as each did sing, 

In Love is pleasaunce ; in Love is pleasaunce. 



Meadov, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 97 

But a lark, upspyring above them all, 
As if released from earthes dull thrall, 
Appeared aloud from the cloudis to call, 

In Heaven is pleasaunce ! in Heav'n is pleasaunce I 



ANXIETY. 

I love thee with a thrilling fear, 
For, gazing on thy pensive cheek, 

I see Decay too busy there, 
Or tremble at the hectic streak. 

Thy holy thoughts, and looks reveal 
That touching, and unearthy charm, 

Where early death hath set its seal, 
Almost too gently for alarm. 

When gazing on Eve's parting smile r 
We scarcely note the ebb of Day, 

Nor heed that Night steals on the while, 
Till fades the latest tint away : 



98 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Or, wandering where the forest weaves 
Its fairy bowers, by Autumn drest, 

We half forget, that autumn leaves 
Fall, when their hues are loveliest. 

Oh, look not, lest my tears should start, 
So mournfully, so tenderly, 

As if the thought were in thy heart, 
What I must bear, bereft of thee ! 

As if thou didst anticipate 

My lonely lot, divorc'd from thine, 

And sadly didst forebode thy fate, 
Not for thy own dear sake, but mine ! 



THE LAMENT. 

Sweet Angel, could'st thou shed a tear in Heaven. 

Where grief, and pain are pass'd away, 
Ev'n in thy bliss, one tear were surely given 

To him, who mourns thee, night and day. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 99 

Since thou art gone, the hours in anguish roll, 

It breaks my heart to think on thee, 
Yet to forget thee were a blank of soul, 

Far worse than Sorrow's agony. 

On my sad breast my arms I wildly clasp ! 

Ah why ? They cannot fold thee there ! 
Ev'n in my dreams, thy form eludes my grasp, 

Although its semblance mocks despair. 

When my last kiss receiv'd thy parting breath, 

I did not wring my hands, or weep, 
I gaz'd upon thy loveliness in death, 

As if I look'd upon thy sleep : 

With such deep resignation on my heart 

Sank the last accents of thy voice, 
So quiet, beautiful, serene, thou wert, 

Almost I deem'd I could rejoice; 

And I could calmly smile, methought, to know 

That one so fragile, and so fair, 
No more beneath Life's bitter storms should bow, 

No more contend with human care. 

f 2 



100 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Death, death ! I could not understand the word ! 

Alas, I was but stunn'd with pain ! 
And soon, too soon, reviving feeling stirr'd 

The pulse of agony again ! 

Oh Time, men call thee Sorrow's surest friend ! 

Alas, they err, who name thee so ; 
Thou only teachest me to comprehend 

The depth, and nature of my woe ! 



THE CONSOLATION. 



She is not dead, but sleepeth." 

St. Luke's Gospel. 



She is not dead, but sleeps the sleep, 

Which ne'er shall wake to grief again, 
Oh, how more blest, than we, who weep, 

Yet feel that all our tears are vain ! 

She sleeps to sorrow, sin, and pain 
To all Life's heritage of woe, 

She wakes to Heaven's immortal reign, 
To all the joys, that Angels know. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 101 

No more earth's poor, and narrow range 

The boundless spirit can confine ; 
Ah happy I Who would not exchange 

Their calmest, softest sleep, for thine ? 

No dream, that is not all divine, 
Can steal upon thy perfect rest ; 

For thee what blissful visions shine, 
While slumbering on thy Saviour's breast ! 

We will not mourn, that thou wert given 

Like the bright rainbow's transient die, 
Which shews how fair the hues of Heaven, 

Then melts into its native sky ; 

For still to love thee fervently, 
As one, who hath not ceas'd to live, 

To hope that we shall meet on high, 
Is more than all the world can give. 



KINDRED FEELING. 

How softly sweet each stealing tone, 
Harp of the breeze, thou fling'st around, 

When he, to whom thou yield'st alone, 
Draws forth thy hidden stores of sound ! 



102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

But far more sweet the answering chords, 
In breasts with kindred music fraught, 

When that is breath'd to life, in words, 
Which dwelt, till then, in lonely thought 

Some cherish'd feeling, unavow'd, 
Which never, yet, we dar'd reveal, 

Lest, haply, the insulting crowd 

Should mock at what it could not feel. 

So well the kindred sounds have stirr'd 
The wak'ning heart's responsive tone, 

It deems it must before have heard 
A melody, so like its own ; 

And yet we know, that joy so sweet 
Did never yet its pulses thrill, 

Else till this hour it had not beat 
So wearily, so sadly still. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 103 



SEPARATION. 

Alas, to all, that sojourn here, 

Love's watchword is " Farewell I" 
Fate claims another parting tear, 

Ere dried the last, that fell. 
If one be grown supremely dear, 

Essential to the heart, 
Oh, then a dreaded voice severe 

Is muttering, " Ye must part !" 

Oft too we doom ourselves to grieve, 

For wealth, or glory, rove ; 
But, say, can wealth, or glory give 

Aught, that can equal love ? 
Life is too short thus to bereave 

Existence of its spring, 
Or ev'n for one short hour to leave 

The breast, to which we cling. 

Count o'er the hours, whose happy flight 
Is shar'd with those we love, 

Like stars amid a stormy night, 
Alas, how few they prove ! 



i 



104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Yet they concentre all the light, 

That cheers our lot below, 
And thither turns the weary sight 

From this dark world of woe. 

- And could we live, if we believ'd 

The future like the past ? 
Ah, still we hope, though still deceiv'd, 

The hour shall come at last, 
When all the visions, Fancy weav'd, 

Shall be by Truth imprest, 
And they, who long asunder griev'd, 

Shall be together blest. 

But happiest they, whose gifted eye 

Above this world can see, 
And those diviner realms descry, 

Where partings cannot be. 
Who, with one changeless Friend on high, 

Life's varied path have trod, 
And soar to meet, beyond the sky, 

The ransom'd, and their God. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 105 



THE TEAR. 



There is a joy, a lonely tear, 
By none beheld, to none reveal'd, 

To every feeling heart more dear 

Than all, that wealth, or power can yield. 

Is others' happiness o'ercast ? 

It mingles soft with Pity's sigh ; 
O'er the fond records of the past, 

It slowly streams from Memory's eye. 

And, when the silent bosom swells 
With feelings, that we cannot speak, 

By murmuring brooks, in moonlight dells, 
Oh, then it trembles on the cheek ! 

It is the sacred tear, that flows, 
Devotion's humble tribute given, 

When every passion finds repose, 
And every thought is lost in heaven. 



f 5 



106 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



AN EVENING THOUGHT. 

Reflected in the lake, I love 
To mark the star of Evening glow, 

So tranquil in the heaven above, 
So restless on the wave below. 

Thus heav'nly Hope is all serene, 
But earthly Hope, how bright soe'er, 

Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene^, 
As false, and fleeting, as 'tis fair. 



THE SUMMER SHOWER. 

The shower is past. The light breeze shakes 

The rain-drops from the tree, 
O'er the pink meadow-crocus flit 

The butterfly, and bee. 

Where the lone river, and the brook 

Yon pathway small divides, 
Fragrant is many a freshen'd flower, 

That decks their rush-grown sides. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 107 

And o'er the swelling waters brown, 

That eddy, as they flow, 
Elm, oak, and ash, their mingling arms 

Fantastically throw. 

Here, leaning on the rustic stile, 

Which tree to tree unites, 
Where the rich landscape, view'd between, 

The roving eye invites, 

I watch the playful insect-race 

Disporting o'er the stream, 
Where'er they go, glides with them still 

A fitful, diamond gleam. 

Yon rude stone-steps the cottage-girl 

Descends to fill her pail, 
And, while her sweetly-simple song 

Is wafted on the gale, 



While, mingling its low whispers near, 
Rustles the quivering leaf, 



I muse in pensive happiness, 






^~~~ — r ~^x,~ ^ — ri — — ^, 
And sigh ; but not in grief. 



108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



TO THE SCENTLESS VIOLET. 

Deceitful plant, from thee no odours rise, 
To scent the mossy bank, or copse wood glade, 

Although thy blossoms wear the modest guise 
Of her, the sweetest offspring of the shade. 

Yet not like her's, still shunning to be seen, 
And by their fragrant breath, alone, betray 'd, 

'Mid scantier leaves of less luxuriant green, 
To every gazer are thy flowers display 'd. 

Thus, Virtue's garb Hypocrisy may wear, 

Kneel as she kneels, or give as she has given, 

But, ah, -no meek retiring worth is there, 
No incense of the heart exhales to heaven ! 



PETITION OF AN OLD OAK. 

Oh, let me still uninjur'd stand ! 
Oh, let the cruel steel forbear 
To spoil what Time's relenting hand, 

And tempests, spare ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 109 

When I am laid in dust, no more 

The squirrel here his haunts shall hold, 
My boughs his home, my fruits his store 
For winter's cold : 



Nor frame on high his mossy nest, 
Nor lure his little ones to spring 
From branch to branch, with milk-white breast, 
In graceful ring. 

No more, within my leafy cell, 

The dove shall murmur to his mate, 
Nor here the blackbird's wild note swell, 
So sweet of late. 



The cattle never shall retreat 

Beneath my thick impervious bower, 
To shun the noon-day sultry heat, 

Or pelting shower. 

On my wreath'd roots, no more reclin'd 

Shall musing Poet then be found, 
To watch my foliage, in the wind, 

Chequering the ground. 






i 



110 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

To mark the sun, at eve and morn, 

Tint my dark leaves with glowing red, 
And gladly hail them yet unshorn, 
All others fled. 



No more, beneath my sheltering boughs, 

Silver'd by Cynthia's tender beam, 
The lover shall repeat his vows 

To their dear theme ; 

Nor, slighted by some breast more chill, 

To me his secret pain impart, 
Graving the name, more deeply still 

Grav'd on his heart. 



The shepherd never, here, again 

Shall pipe his sweetly-rustic lay, 
While round me dance the village train, 
Happy, as gay. 

Canst thou reflect, while yet I live, 

On every good, on every joy, 
To man, to Nature's tribes I give, 

And yet destroy ? 



ft 
H 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Ill 



A WISH. 

Of all, this fleeting life imparts, 

For this, for this, alone, I sigh, 
To build myself, in gentle hearts, 

A shrine of lasting memory ; 

Where Love his sacred vows shall pay, 

Hourly, throughout long absent years ; 
And Piety, sweet seraph, lay 

Her warmest incense, and her tears. 

Bring every costly gem, that shines 

In earth's dark caves, or ocean's hall ; 

. . »l, 

Heap all the gold of Indian mines, 

One grain of love outweighs it all. 

Let others toil, the wreath to claim, 

By genius, glory, empire wove ; 
I do not ask to live with Fame, 

In future years, but dwell with Love. 



112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



TO MUSIC. 

music, what I owe to thee, 
They, they alone, can tell, 

Who have, in sorrow, prov'd, like me, 
Thy soul-commanding spell ! 

1 thank thee for forgotten woes, 

Or joy's recover'd gleams, 
For lulling Fancy to repose, 

Or prompting her sweet dreams. 

When thou hast chas'd the clouds of woe, 

And the glad smile appears, 
Thine be my gratitude ; but, oh, 

I thank thee most for tears ! 



HINT FOR A PICTURE. 

Thou, whose skill'd hand, to Nature, Fancy, true, 
Can body forth each form to mortal view, 
Fain would I now thine imitative art 
Should mirror one lov'd vision of my heart, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 113 

Which, 'mid the treasur'd pictures of the past, 

Most palpably on Memory's gaze is cast. 

Unfold thy canvass, and thy tints prepare ; 

But see that modest hues alone be there, 

For 'tis a simple scene I wish exprest, , 

In Winter's dusk, and sober raiment drest, 

A road ; which, winding through an ample wood, 

Is lost amid its deepest solitude ; 

Fantastic sand-rocks rising on the left, 

Rough with rude furze, and worn in many a cleft, 

With greener patches, scatter'd o'er the steep, 

Of moss, and verdure, cropp'd by straggling sheep ; 

Such be thy foreground : on that broken height 

Concentre all the magic of thy light, 

Eve's lingering rays ; for there shall intervene 

The human interest of the lonely scene. 

A solitary shepherd boy is there, 

Notching a stick, his rural calendar, 

Kneeling upon that little knoll of heath, 

With his rough outer garment spread beneath ; 

And, rough as that, his dog beside him lies, 

Watching his master with beseeching eyes, 

While he, upon his childish labour bent, 

With mien so simply earnest, and intent, 

Heeds not the heavy step of plodding swain, 

Nor the shrilLtinkle of the passing wain. 



1M MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

FROM THE GERMAN. 

Love is like the shadow, seen 

When the sun first lights the skies, 

Stretching then o'er all the green, 
But dwindling, as each moment flies. 

Friendship is the shadow, thrown 
When the day its noon has past, 

Length'ning, as life's sun goes down, 
Ev'n till it has look'd its last. 



TO LUCY. 



" There is no music in the hollowness of common praise." 

SOUTHEY. 



More sweet, to thirsting Pilgrim's ear, 
The stream, that some green pasture laves, 

Than mighty ocean, roaring near, 
With all his multitude of waves. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 115 

By pensive Eve, by sprightly Morn, 

One only star is still preferr'd, 
And Night's pale Queen, through ether borne, 

Will listen to one only bird. 

The drum, the trumpet's loud alarm, 

With joy, awhile, the soul may fill ; 
And yet, when these have ceas'd to charm, 

One lonely lute delights us still. 

So, while I pour my idle lays, 

My soul more genuine sweetness draws 

From thy lov'd looks, and words of praise, 
Than from a gather'd world's applause. 



ABSENCE. 

When I could fain recal to these sad eyes 
The face, on which they most desire to dwell, 

'Tis strange, the perfect vision will not rise, 

Though Memory knows each separate trait so well. 



116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

TV unvalued faces of the passing crowd, 
Will oft the tir'd reluctant soul pursue, 

The vacant mien, the sullen, or the proud, 
In painful clearness, meet the mental view. 

Thine but in slumbers of the silent night, 
When pure intelligence awakes alone, 

Flashes fond rapture on the inward sight, 
Bright as the lightning, and as swiftly flown. 

Ah, why? Because its power is of the mind, 
Whose beams too subtly for remembrance dart, 

Which, ever-varying, cannot be defin'd, 
And mocks the painter's toil, the poet's art. 

And thy lov'd voice, so rapturously sweet, 
Music in speech, in song, a charm divine, 

How oft officious Memory will repeat 

Each other voice, but, oh, how seldom thine ! 

Inimitable thus by mortal skill 

Th' iEolian notes swell, soften, sink, and rise, 
Thus o'er the opal shift the colours still, 

And who can paint the restless, playful dies ? 



SHU I 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 117 



FAITHFUL LOVE. 



When Death shall bid this heart be still, 
Too dark for joy, too wild for peace, 

And give this spirit, worn with ill, 
Its long-delay'd, its wish'd release, 
O think not that the love shall cease, 

Which glow'd throughout this earthly scene, 
Which ev'n Despair could not decrease, 

Nor make me wish it ne'er had been ! 

Yes, they may tear thee from me now, 

But then thou shalt again be mine ; 
Mine by each tie, each holiest vow, 

Which Faith can breathe, or Love can twine. 

As swift as sever'd streams combine, 
Their parting barrier roll'd away, 

My kindred soul shall blend with thine, 
When broken from its bonds of clay. 

By day, when danger round thee teems, 

I'll warn thee of the peril near, 
By night, I'll whisper to thy dreams, 

And guard thy slumbers well from fear; 



118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

And breathe such music in thine ear, 
As soothes the sainted, when they die, 

Or, rob'd in radiant light, appear 
In visions to thine inward eye. 

But should'st thou first, by God's high will. 

Be taken from this world of woe, 
Oh, doubt not but the shaft must kill, 

In piercing thee, thy lover too. 

As trees, that cannot meet below, 
Will intertwine their boughs above, 

On high our plighted souls shall know 
The union of immortal love. 



TO BERTHA. 

If for a moment I forget 

Thou art not at my side, 
How swells again my vain regret 

With full-returning tide ! 

While with thee, I could scarcely know 

Thy kind regard for me, 
Thy tender offices of love 

Were done so silently ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 119 

And so anticipated all, 

My scarce-form'd wishes sought, 
Thou didst not to my mind recal H 

That I had wish'd for aught. 

Yet ev'n to think of thee bestows 

A balm for every care ; 
In sickness, health ; in pain, repose ; 

Hope, even in despair ; 

4 

A silent refuge, all my own ; 

A shrine, where none intrude ; 
Society, when most alone; 

In crowds, my solitude. 

When thy dear form meets Memory's eye, 

Such thrilling bliss I prove, 
I feel as if I could not die, 

While musing on thy love. 

When others every fault assail, 

I, wounded, turn to thee, 
Whose partial kindness is the veil, 

That hides each fault in me. 



120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Through all the wide, wide world, I sought 

A heart, a love, like thine, 
And scarcely now can trembling thought 

Believe the treasure mine : 

And yet 'tis sacred, homefelt bliss, 

That cannot pass away, 
A calm, yet glowing happiness. 

More bright with every day. 

Then what is all the world to me ? 

Can Fame my soul beguile ? 
I would not lose one smile from thee 

To win her brightest smile. 

Oh, rather should I deem it sweet, 

With thee alone, to stray, 
In deepest woods, where human feet 

Had never found their way ! 

There, mark thy love shine brightly still 

On life's last ebbing sand, 
Gaze on thy face, and, dying, feel 

The pressure of thy hand ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 121 



TO THE SAME. 

Thy gentle spirit so hath wrapt 

My being in its own, 
The chain of soul is never snapt, 

Which thou hast round me thrown ; 
All day its links unbroken keep, 
By night, it binds the zone of sleep. 

Ev'n when my thoughts perforce have dwelt 

On themes less warmly dear, 
Thine inward presence hath been felt, 

As though thou still wert near, 
And, by some tender magic, wrought 
An underflow of deeper thought. 

The busy world, the cares of day 

A smile, a frown may claim ; 
O'er Ocean's face the wild waves play, 

His depths are still the same ! 
Tiie mind may wander, as it will, 
The heart is conscious of thee still. 



122 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



A LOVER'S FANCY. 



I would not have thy portrait trac'd, 

Save in my inmost mind, 
Where Love's own hand the treasure plac'd. 

And bade it dwell enshrin'd. 
Th' exactest portraiture would mar 
My thoughts of thee, and be at war 

With all my dearest feelings ^ 
A mortal hand, with ail its art, 
Could only to the eye impart 

One of thy soul's revealings, 
While that deep vision of the mind 
Is from thy every look combin'd. 

And thou hast all, which earthly skill 

Could never yet portray, 
A nameless charm, that varies still, 

A soul-enkindled ray. 
When Joy hath every glance embu'd, 
And gush'd around thee, in a flood, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 123 

My heart hath danc'd with gladness : 
Yet oft mine eyes have fill'd with tears, 
The children of presageful fears, 

To look upon thy sadness ; 
So deep its fountains seem'd to lie 
In thoughts of life's sad mystery. 

And o'er thine image, in my soul, 

Has playful Fancy thrown 
A vague, unearthly charm, which stole 

Its magic from her own, 
With how much more of interest, 
Than tint, or feature e'er exprest, 

The colouring of a dream ; 
So fair, that, should I see thee now, 
For one strange moment, thou, ev'n thou, 

Thy very self, would'st seem 
Less dear than thy own vision, shrin'd 
Within the temple of my mind. 






tij 



124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, 
NAMED MAB, 

WHICH WAS KILLED BY SWANS. 



" Weep, tiny elves, your tears, like dew, 

Into the harebell's chalice blue, 

And bind your brows with mournful rue, 

For Mab is gone ! 
Ye swans, who wrought her destiny, 
Oh, haste, yourselves, to pine, and die, 
And warble forth her elegy, 

Before your own !" 

This pensive lay a poet pour'd, 
The while a gentle nymph depior'd 
A favourite, which she more ador'd 

Than favourite bird ; 
Long, long, she mourn'd, and, Fame says, wept, 
Till gradual slumber gently crept 
O'er her sad couch ; and, as she slept, 

A voice was heard. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 125 

A fluttering Sylph, in visions, said, 
" Oh, weep no more ! she is not dead ; 
To fairy-land her sprite is fled, 

Whence first it came, 
By kind Titania lent awhile 
To woo the sunshine of your smile, 
And momentary cares beguile, 

In earthly frame. 

What, though no more her form be seen 
Disporting on the smooth-shorn green, 
Yet still she reigns, an elfin queen, 

In fairy-land ; 
And, when the sprites their dances braid 
O'er moonlight lawn, in twilight glade, 
Or trip it by their lov'd cascade, 

She leads the band. 

What, though no more, when Summer's dye 
Burns in the bright, and azure sky, 
She chase the crimson butterfly 

From flower, to flower, 
Yet wings more rich, and forms more fair 
Her gauzy chariot gaily bear 
Through cloudless realms of purer air, 

Where blooms her bower. 



3 



126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 

And still her viewless sprite shall rove 
Round her, she cannot cease to love, 
Lurk in the scarf, or slender glove, 

Or thread thine hair ; 
And, Lady, if a lovelier dream 
Wave his light wings, in airy stream, 
Believe, she prompts the soothing theme, 

With guardian care. 

When, in the noon of sultry day, 
You pant beneath the fervid ray, 
If haply then a zephyr play, 

She bids it breathe ; 
Or if, at morn, your wondering eyes 
Ope on some bouquet's lovely dies, 
Nor know who plann'd the sweet surprise, 

She twin'd the wreath/' 

Then, Lady, cease, oh cease to grieve ! 
Thy poet's soothing strain believe, 
Who loves the careless rhyme to weave, 

For those he loves ; 
Ah happy, when his tuneful art 
Bids joy one transient thrill impart, 
Or, from the sorrow-stricken heart 

One thorn removes ! 



WATERLOO. 



WATERLOO.* 



O God, Thy arm was here ; 
And not to us, but to thy arm alone 
Ascribe we all. 

Shakspeare. 



O that to me the deathless song were given, 
Thoughts born of light, and words that breathe of 

Heaven ! 
Then the glad hope were mine to sing, and soar, 
Where never poet dar'd his flight before, 
And ev'n to Glory's loftiest realm pursue 
Thy matchless theme, immortal Waterloo. 
But ah, in vain, still lab'ring unexprest, 
Pants the deep feeling in my baffled breast. 
A world in arms ; a Tyrant hurl'd from high ; 
An Empire's might ; a People's constancy ; 
All throng in vast succession ; each in turn 
Melts the full heart, or bids it, raptur'd, burn. 



* The order of events forms the plan of the poem. With the 
exception of one digression to Brussels, it has been scrupu- 
lously observed. 

G 5 



130 WATERLOO. 

Lost in effulgence, where shall Fancy stray ? 

How from the brightness part each blended ray ? 

How, when the full-orb'd Moon on Ocean streams, 

Paint ev'ry wave, where separate lustre gleams ; 

Yet all combin'd, upon the dazzled sight, 

Effuse one flood of undivided light ? 

Long, thro' her realms, had Earth with discord burn'd 

To Belgium now her eager glance is turn'd, 

Stage of high deeds, where waits each anxious eye 

The last wild act of War's dread tragedy. 

To-morrow sees Gaul's proud Usurper hurl'd 

Low to the dust, or Monarch of the world. 

Spirits, to whom the care of man is given, 

Ye bend expectant from the gates of Heaven. 

? Tis not o'er one pale nation Doubt prevails : 

A World, a World is trembling in the scales ! 



Fierce in his splendour, ere his course be run, 
From broken clouds looks out the threatening Sun ; 
Dead silence reigns : heav'n, earth, and air are still, 
Save the rye rustling over yon low hill. 
Along that ridge what warlike banners glance ? 
'Tis England rank'd against the might of France. 
Gaul's mustering myriads crown th' opposing height. 
While dark between them drops the veil of Night. 



WATERLOO. 131 

Short separation ! They, at morn, shall meet 

With such good morrow as a foe may greet. 

Oh, till that hour, what expectation reigns, 

Drinks the quick breath, and thrills the fever'd veins ! 

Dread the fierce onset, dread the stern defence ; 

But what can match the sickness of suspense ? 

To act, to suffer, may be nobly great, 

But Nature's mightiest effort is to wait. 

Hark, 'tis the thunder's groan ! Full-rous'd, at length, 

Bursts the loud tempest in its gather'd strength.* 

Yet Slumber broods o'er many a weary eye, 

Such sounds are but the Soldier's lullaby. 

Haply, the wakeful Highland Mountaineer 

Lists the rude storm, familiar to his ear. 

Before his view his native rocks arise, 

His cot half lost amid the misty skies ; 

The cheerful fire of peat ; he may not brook 

On the fond scene to dwell, with lingering look : 

For there are some, (Oh, dearer ev'n than life !) 

Who may weep vainly o'er to-morrow's strife. 

Far other thoughts the lively Gaul possess, 

Flush'd with gay hope, and drunken with success. 

Too light to heed the mingling wind, and rain, 

Boastful he fights his conquests o'er again, 



* The night, preceding the engagement, was tempestuous. 



132 WATERLOO. 

And gilds, with Ligny's fame, the darker hour, 

When quail'd at Quatre Bras his vaunted pow'r. 

And does the mem'ry of that well-fought field 

No thrilling pulse to Britain's warriors yield ? 

Feebly, alas, the joys of triumph swell, 

Too dearly bought, where Brunswick, Cameron, fell 

No cheering thoughts the sinking heart elate, 

While anxious lips enquire of Prussia's fate, 

And comrades whisper, as, with busy care, 

Their arms they burnish, or the steed prepare ; 

From the wet firelock wipe the rusty stain, 

Or empty from the tube the streaming rain. 

Yet Albion's offspring, firm in joy, or ill, 

Ev'n in their sadness, are undaunted still. 

Slow move the hours ; the tardy Morn still shrouds 

Her feeble radiance in a night of clouds. 

Dim, through the vapour, and the driving storm, 

On either height, stalks many a warlike form. 

And who is he, amid the Gallic host, 

With that fierce gesture of insulting boast, 

Who, as to seize the prey, in fancy won, 

Clench'd his rais'd hand ? It is Napoleon.* 



* It is said, that, on the morning which preceded the last 
decisive engagement, Napoleon looked towards the English 
army, and, clenching his hand, exclaimed, " Je les tiens, ces 
Anglois." 



Ill 

WATERLOO. 133 






Ha ! dost thou hold them in thy savage grasp ? 
That eager hand, on empty air, may clasp ! 
Well hast thou laid each deep dissembled plan, 
But not remember'd they were laid by Man ; 
And weigh'd most subtly, in the scale of sense, 
Each turn of chance, but not of Providence ; 
Trac'd from each source, save One, the sure event, 
But dost not know that One Omnipotent ! 
Hark, 'twas the shout of legions shook the sky ! 
France, and Napoleon ! England ! Victory ! 
Like loose clouds, heralding the thunder's might, 
Files of light skirmishers prelude the fight ; 
And, like the solid darkness of the storm, 
Deep, silent, slow, the moving columns form. 
Now roars the cannon : from its brazen throat, 
Billows of smoke, in eddying volumes, float. 
On bounds the war-horse ; high the standards reel, 
Waves the plum'd crest, and gleams the flickering steel 
Red, through the lurid air, the bomb aspires, 
Then shoots, like falling star, its earthward fires. 
Each furious volley tells that thousands die, 
And the groan mingles with the victor's cry. 



Chief, where embattled Hougoumont ascends, 
War turns his might, and all his fury bends. 



134 WATERLOO. 

Seize but that post, and Gallia shall prevail ! 

Wild with high hope, her eager sons assail. 

The grove is won ! Oh, hasten, ere too late, 

On the fierce foe to close yon guardian gate ! 

But who shall dare the danger ? Who roll back 

Its ponderous weight against the mad attack ? 

Then burst, in all its native lightning, forth 

Th' indignant spirit of the hardy North. 

See'st thou yon Highland Chief, whose gleaming brand 

Has met so oft the foeman, hand to hand ? 

Forward he springs ! exulting shouts proclaim 

His arm's strong triumph, and Macdonnel's name.* 

Vainly without still chafes the frantic Gaul ; 

The storm of war turns harmless from the wall. 



But fiercest, deadliest, in his swift career, 
Spurs his hot steed th' impetuous Cuirassier. 
In vain the sword those rivets may assail, 
And idly thence rebounds the iron hail. 
Destruction, hurtling in the cannon's bray,. 
Sweeps the thinn'd ranks before their destin'd way : 
Onward they dart, beneath the battle-cloud, 
Wrapt, like the lightning, in its sulphurous shroud, 



Of the house of Glengarry. 



WATERLOO. 135 

And, swift as lightning, urge their coursers on, 

Where Carnage scents her prey o'er Mount St. John. 

Can yon small bands, like lonely forts, dispers'd 

O'er the wide plain, withstand th' o'erwhelming burst ? 

It may not be ! Yet gaze once more around ; 

Whose headlong coursers strew th' ensanguin'd ground ? 

Who sink beneath the musket's steady fires ? 

Tis Albion conquers ! Tis the Gaul expires ! 

Fix'd as her rocks, not banded worlds could tear 

Each moveless phalanx from the serried square. 

Their foemen charge ; they point the bayonet's rows : 

Their comrades fall ; their lessen'd files they close, 

With stern composure, more tremendous far 

Than all the angry turbulence of war. 

Swift to their aid, with conquest's thrilling cry, 

Sweep o'er the field Britannia's Cavalry. 

Like the Simoon they come ; the prostrate foe 

Grasps, in convulsive death, the plain below. 

Where yawns the quarry, with abrupt abyss,* 

Headlong they roll, down, down the precipice. 

In undistinguishable tumult, bleed 

The wounded soldier, and the mangled steed. 



* A tremendous slaughter took place, in the manner de- 
scribed, where some stone quarries had been opened on the 
plain. 



136 WATERLOO. 

All sights, and sounds are blended ; the wild tone 
Of dying horses, and the human groan. 
Now the last fire, if 'twere in mercy, pour, 
And bid Pain's torture rack the foe no more ! 

Oh, how contrasted is the vivid scene, 
Where not a pause for thought can intervene, 
With thee, sad Brussels, to thy fears resign'd, 
Where thought grows madness in the o'er-wrought 

mind ! 
Less dread the hour, when, rous'd at peep of morn, 
From circling arms, Sons, Husbands, Friends were torn; 
And they, who staid, again rush'd forth to hear 
Once more the voice, most grateful to their ear ; 
Taught, by the nature of the heart, to dwell 
So long, so fondly, on that word, " farewell !" 
And wish it still repeated o'er, and o'er, 
As if it had not reach'd the soul before. 
But now the breast, with fiercer, deadlier throe, 
Pants in the crisis of its joy, or woe : 
Links all it sees, with all it wildly feels, 
Deems every sound some oracle reveals, 
And strains each fever'd nerve, till all things seem 
The dark phantasma of a hideous dream. 
Time seems to stagnate o'er th' unvaried day 
In one broad blank of terror, and dismay. 



WATERLOO. 137 

Unheeded now the sabbath's solemn rites,* 

Its toil suspended, and its calm delights. 

Ah, who can now the bells' sweet summons hail? 

Heard ye not deeper sounds upon the gale, 

The cannon's ceaseless roar, which Fancy's ear, 

As the breeze freshens, ever deems more near ? 

Yet haply, to some small, retiring fane, 

The holy pastor draws his simple train : 

He speaks of Him, who all things can perform, 

And reins the battle, as he guides the storm. 

Amid the turbulence, that raves around, 

The hurrying crowd, the battles swelling sound, 

This seems the last retreat, where Peace hath fled, 

Trembling, to hide her meek, unshelter'd head ; 

A Heaven in Hell, a star of lovely light, 

That brightest shines through severing clouds of night ; 

iEolian notes, that still most sweetly cast 

Their melting music on the rudest blast. 



But, oh, for thee, brave Warrior, who, afar 
From thine own isle, dost bear the brunt of war, 
Wild are this sabbath's rites ; the cannons' roar, 
For bells' glad music on thy native shore ; 



The battle of Waterloo was fought on a Sunday. 



1 38 WATERLOO. 

For the sweet hymn, the onset's maddening cry, 
Shrieks of the wounded, groans of those, who die ; 
The foe's stern greeting, for the peaceful train, 
Who only meet, to seek the sacred fane ; 
No prayer, save that, in hurried silence, given, 
Which but commends the parting soul to Heaven. 
No rest ; ah, yes ! a rest, which nought shall break, 
Till the pale sleepers of the tomb awake. 

Now swells the fight, commingled ; not, as erst, 
Fix'd to one point, but in one general burst. 
And darkest there, in dreadful might serene, 
Frowning like Death, are Brunswick's warriors seen ; 
Whose dauntless bands, in memory of their chief, 
Bear the sad hue of undissembling grief; 
Yet seems it now no soft regret to shew, 
But black revenge, and hate more stern than woe. 
Where La Haye Sainte extends her shatter'd walls, 
Faithful in death, the Hanoverian falls. 
Still rolls the dread artillery along, 
Pours its loud peal, and thins th' embattled throng. 
Still Gallia chafes, still Albion scorns to yield, 
And falling numbers darken all the field. 

Ye, whose firm front all Gallia's shock endures, 
Oh, when was bravery unmix'd as yours ? 



WATERLOO. 139 

No bigot creed your lofty zeal supplies, 
For you no Houries beckon from the skies ; 
For you no streams of bright Metheglin roll ; 
The Patriot's ardor prompts the glowing soul, 
Whose miracles, when action dies to rest, 
Find scarcely credence in the wondering breast. 
Nor yours gay Valour's momentary glance, 
Which fades, or flashes, in the sons of France, 
Like bubbles, lost in air, which form'd them first, 
Their rainbow colours brightest, ere they burst : 
Theirs, in wild onset, kindles as it goes, 
Yours in resistance, keen-concentred, glows : 
They seek, through all this waste of human blood, 
Their country's glory ; ye, your country's good. 



See, see ! what blaze shoots upwards from the vale ? 
What dark smoke soars, where war-clouds cannot sail ? 
What deaf'ning thunder, what terrific jar 
With louder horror swells the voice of war ? 
'Tis the wide ravage of th' infernal shell ! 
Alas ! on Britain's bravest band it fell ; 
Where Hougoumont's beleaguer'd walls aspire, 
Moated with blood, and canopied with fire. 
But dare not look within ! oh, close the ear 
Against those shrieks, 'twere agony to hear ! 



140 WATERLOO. 

There, fatally enclos'd, the wounded lie ; 

None, none may succour, and they cannot fly ! 

Oh, who can tell the horrors of that hour, 

When Death seem'd dallying with his savage power ; 

When the poor victim must perforce await, 

Not, with high ardour, meet, and dare his fate ? 

Hark, to that rattling, grating, shiv'ring crash ! 

Down the roof rushes ; down the rafters dash. 

A moment's darkness, and the flame again 

Starts, like a strengthen'd giant, from the plain : 

Now unrelenting pours its blasting breath 

Fierce on its human prey ; and all is death ! 

Not such thy fate, brave hero of the band, 

Which those proud walls unconquerably mann'd, 

Craufurd,* thy valour, in its youthful glow, 

Led the bold sally full upon the foe. 

While Memory lives, in silent woe, shall bend, 

O'er thy lov'd dust, the parent, brother, friend. 

For thee the Muse a fadeless wreath would twine, 

And wed the name of Hougoumont to thine. 



* Thomas, son of Sir James Craufurd, Lieutenant in the 
Third Guards. The command of the detachment at Hougou- 
mont had devolved upon him, in consequence of two superior 
officers being killed. If it be objected, that I have singled 
out one, where all were brave, let private feeling plead my 
excuse. 



WATERLOO. 141 

Where is Britannia's chief ? Go, range where'er 
Threatens worst peril ; thou shalt find him there. 
He is the soul of War. His words inspire, 
His dauntless looks, the keen electric fire. 
Nor more obey'd than lov'd ; and, oh, how well 
Let dying Gordon, and Delancey tell ! 
How far more true their warm affection's zeal, 
Than all that Gallia for her Chief can feel ! 
Tho' wild devotion in her sons is seen, 
'Tis love of self behind that nobler screen. 
Their idol, Glory, they in him adore, 
Success has crown'd him, and they ask no more. 
And thou, Napoleon, who, on yonder height, 
From morn 'till eve, hast watch'd the dubious fight, 
From those of Albion's chief how different far 
Thine hope of conquest, and thine art of War ! 
Not thine, like him, where danger frowns, to lead, 
But wave thy legions, where they die, or bleed ; 
Thou can'st not weep, with him, above the slain, * 
Thou only moumest thine have fall'n in vain. 



* The Duke of Wellington is said to have shed tears, on 
surveying- the field after the battle. 



142 WATERLOO. 

Oh, could I read thy bosom, and declare 

The wilder fray, that boils, and rages there ; 

How, from hot hope, through ev'ry change, it past, 

Fear, rage, hate, terror, to despair at last ! 

Go then ! the fool of passion, as of fame, 

Play the last stake of Fortune's desp'rate game ! 

Cheer to the field thine own imperial band, 

Who wait the waving of thy haughty hand, 

To pour their souls, in that unequall'd strife, 

For him, who recks but of one coward life ! 

Brave self-devotion ; such as Romans knew ! 

A nobler cause had made it virtue too. 

'Tis done ! Wild clamours rend th' etherial vault, 

Herald their way, and cheer the last assault. 

Now for your England, warriors, now combine, 

Quit the deep phalanx, form the length'ning line! 

Now is war's crisis ! Daringly exchange 

Firmness for fire, resistance for revenge ! 

See how the sun illumes the western sky, * 

As if to light your troops to victory. 



* A tempestuous night, and wet morning were succeeded 
by a fine day, 



WATERLOO. 



143 



Reflected lustre from the bayonet streams, 
And crested helms give back the level beams. 
A breathless pause succeeds ; 'tis silence all, 
Save the dull tramp of the advancing Gaul. 
Now bursts the volley from the British files, 
At once th' imperial column back recoils. 
The clearing smoke their hurrying rout reveals, 
All France gives way; a throne, an empire reels. 
Strong as from peace, and fresh as from repose, 
Now Albion rushes on her yielding foes ! 
Pikes, glittering eagles, banners, helmets, men, 
Roll down the slope, and mingle on the plain : 
In fierce pursuit, the floundering horses tread 
Over a ghastly pavement of the dead, 
Stung to more wildness, by the piercing cry 
Of some poor trampled wretch's agony. 
Lost, blended, broken, Gallia's legions flee ! 
England is victor, and the world is free ! 



Oh yet exult not, as ye swift recede, 
That the tir'd Briton checks his panting steed ! 
Fresh, and unbreath'd, impetuous as the wave, 
Greedy as wolves, relentless as the grave, 
The Prussian comes, his sword in blood unsteep'd, 
To gather in the harvest, England reap'd, 



144 WATERLOO. 

Hope not for mercy ! Did ye mercy shew, 
When pale Silesia saw her conquering foe ? 
Remember Ligny, where the flag of Death 
Wav'd its black menace o'er the host beneath.* 
The Briton, bulwark'd by his rocky strand, 
Ne'er saw thee blight the gardens of his land. 
No injur'd wife, no murder'd offspring call 
His soul to vengeance on the cruel Gaul : 
But there are wrongs, too deep to be redrest, 
That fret, and rankle in the Prussian's breast. 
The cup of vengeance holds its mantling draught 
Close to his lips ; and deep shall it be quaff'd ! 

But darkness yet that madd'ning flight may shroud : 
Oh, for a night of tempest, gloom, and cloud ! 
Uprose the Moon, unclouded, broad, and bright, 
In all the beauty of a summer's night. 
Heedless of men, alike she seems to move 
O'er fields of carnage, or the peaceful grove, 
The dread pursuit of foes, or harmless scenes of love 
Onward they rush, 'till the reflected beam 
Quivers on Sambre's gently-gliding stream. 



* At the battle of Ligny, the French hoisted the black flag, 
which signified that no quarter would be given. 



WATERLOO. 145 

Ah, gentle now no more ! The broken wave 
Flashes above the soldier's wat'ry grave. 
The stifled groan, the frequent plunge declare 
That foemen slay, and warriors perish there. 

But turn your eyes, where spreads the tranquil light 
O'er the wide plain, where rag'd the desperate fight, 
Death's banquet-room, where wildly mingled lie 
The wrecks of his tremendous revelry. 
The pale ray gleams on many a paler cheek, 
Distain'd alone by slaughter's crimson streak ; 
And oft the glist'ning radiance, mildly wan, 
Falls on a face too beautiful for man ; 
'Tis Gallia's maid, who, by her warrior's side, 
In danger triumph'd, and devoted died. * 

Contrasted lies, with features sternly set, 
Each ghastlier corse, which seems to menace yet : 
And here, and there, about the horrid plain, 
The wounded, stumbling o'er the heaps of slain, 
Glare on each other with impatient eyes, 
And look the vengeance, their weak arm denies. 



* Among the slain, were found the bodies of some French 

girls, who had followed their lovers to battle. See Paul's 

Letters to Ms Kinsfolk. 

H 



146 WATERLOO. 

There hover too the Harpies of the strife, 
Whose poignard drinks the last of ebbing life. 
Greedy as Death, with Death the spoil they share, 
Fiercely away the warrior's arms they tear, 
Cuirass, and spear, whose shine is dimm'd in blood, 
Helmet, and plume, all trampled deep in mud, 
Deaf to th' imploring groans, that feebly burst 
From the poor victims of insatiate thirst. 

Oh, what a change one fleeting day has wrought, 
Too wild for fancy, and too swift for thought ! 
How different now the solemn calm, that reigns, 
From that, which lull'd, last eve, th' expectant plains ! 
Then apprehension thrill'd, or hope beat high, 
Now all is hush'd in silent certainty. 
And where is he, whose madly-daring hand 
Heap'd the dread pile, then toss'd the kindling brand ? 
He, far away, pursues his hurried flight, 
Invoking all the deepest shades of night. 
O greatly- fall'n, and could'st thou bear to fly, 
Outcast from fame, no less than victory; 
Fall'n, like the avalanche, all powerless laid, 
That melts amid the wrecks itself had made ? 
Did'st thou not seem the Prussian's shriek to hear, 
And groans from Jaffa murmur'd in thine ear ? 



WATERLOO. ] 47 

Frowning in Angel's wrath, see Wright succeed, 
And murder'd D'Enghien asks, " Who bade me bleed ?" 
Farewell ! If Conscience have not lost her power, 
Her frowns will darken the avenging hour. 
Yes ; all is o'er ! Dominion, glory, fame, 
Shrink in Napoleon to an empty name ; 
Brief as the aloe, whose imperial flower 
Blooms in an age, but withers in an hour. 
Yes ; all is o'er ! Peace flourishes anew 
Like thy own field, victorious Waterloo ! 
Where, for the ghastly corses of the slain, 
Fair Plenty piles her sheaves of golden grain ; 
Or verdure freshly springs, and flowerets wave, 
In vernal beauty, o'er the warrior's grave. 
Proud theatre of Freedom ! Blest domain, 
Where injur'd Justice dar'd assert her reign, 
Still shalt thou live, still boast the Despot's fall, 
Rank'd with high names, yet loftier than, them all : 
Hail'd in each clime, by unborn ages sung, 
Whose fate on thee, in wavering balance, hung. 
While oak, or olive binds each nation's brow, 
And mourning Brunswick wreathes the cypress bough, 
While France, yet trembling from Destruction's flood, 
Wears her pale Lily, stain'd with filial blood, 
To Albion the triumphant Laurel yield, 
Reap'd with her sword on thy unrivall'd field ! 

h2 



148 WATERLOO. 

High Arbitress of nations, Ocean's Queen, 
In might majestic, in success serene, 
Where, calm in joy, her smiling front she rears, 
Yet fondly weeps with all a Mother's tears, 
Gaze on the regal crown, that gems her brows, 
Where 'mid the brightness, brighter lustre glows, 
That dazzling glory, that diviner hue 
Darts from thy name, immortal Waterloo ! 



SONGS. 



SONGS. 



i. 



Oh, ever, as blithe Spring returns, 

With all her breezes, dews, and flowers, 

Bright in my heart the memory burns 
Of early love's delicious hours ! 

For 'twas, when smiling Spring efTac'd 
Each lingering mark of Winter's sway, 

Oh love, thy brighter sunshine chas'd 
The winter of my soul away ! 

Hours of enchantment, ye depart 

With all your thrilling hopes, and fears ; 

A dreary calm pervades my heart, 
Too sad for smiles, too cold for tears. 



152 



SONGS. 



Oh, give me back the pulse, that glows, 
The smiles of hope, the tears of bliss ; 

That golden time, whose very woes 
Were sweeter than the joys of this ! 



II. 

One after one, the joys of youth 

Had died away, 
And visions of unfading truth, 

As false as they ; 

Then came a dark, and dreary chill, 

More sad than grief ; 
The very pang, that bade me feel, 

Had seem'd relief. 

I saw thee smile ; the icy chain 

Began to melt; 
I heard thee speak ; and once again 

Iliv'd, I felt! 



Thy gentle care once more for me 

Hope's garland wove ; 
And all my soul's dark apathy, 

Touch'd by thy love, 



SONGS. 153 

Grew rapture ; as the languid mist 

Of sullen hue, 
By Morning's summer radiance kist, 

Melts in bright dew. 

And thou hast given me light, and life, 

Fond hopes, sweet fears ; 
The varying Passions' pleasing strife, 

And smiles, and tears. 



III. 

There is an hour, of all, that rise 
Upon my path, the brightest, best ; 

Which shines, itself a paradise, 
And casts a light on all the rest. 

It bids mine eyes in hope unclose, 
When first the morning light they see 

At eve, it lulls me to repose, 
With its delicious memory. 

And oft, in more than thought, it seems 

Renew'd amid the hush of night, 

The half-reality of dreams 

Redoubling all its dear delight. 

h 5 



154 



SONGS. 



Oh, Bertha, 'tis the rapturous hour, 
When sinks the sun upon the lea, 

And glimmering star, and closing flower 
Have call'd me forth to meet with thee ! 

It is the hour, when free we rove 
Along the hill's romantic swell, 

Beside the sheltering hazel grove, 

Where sings the evening thrush so well. 

And gazing, o'er the varied plain, 
On the fair earth, and kindling skies, 

Call back the wandering glance again, 
To look into each others' eyes. 



IV. 

As, through the long, and tedious day, 
My varying spirits ebb, or flow, 

Beneath their wild alternate sway, 

The thought of thee wakes joy, or woe. 

Now Absence lengthens hours to years, 
Hope, light, and life, seem fled with thee 

And now to be belov'd appears, 
Alone, sufficient extasy. 



SONGS. ] 55 

Now, pale with sickness, dimm'd with grief, 
Thy form distracts my vision'd sight ; 

Now sweetly it imparts relief, 

In all its youthful radiance bright. 

Oft too, in sleep, thine image seems 

To smile upon me, kind as thou ; 
Then, (oh, 'tis only in my dreams !) 

It frowns with cold, and alter'd brow. 

But think not, with the pulses' play, 

The heart can vary; it may rove 
Through changeful moods, from grave to gay, 

But, oh, it cannot cease to love ! 



V. 

My heart was once a garden fair 

As ever courted Spring's glad showers, 

And many a bud, unfolding there, 
Gave promise of a world of flowers. 

Beneath the Summer's vivid blaze 

Those flowers their brightest hues display 'd 
But, ah, the same too-ardent rays, 

Which bade them open, bade them fade ! 



156 SONGS. 

Yet many a graceful tint, and soft, 
Mark'd their autumnal slow decline ; 

And Memory, from their relics, oft 
A melancholy wreath would twine. 

Now, o'er those scenes of past delight, 
If aught of radiance seem to glow, 

Tis but the snow, which, coldly bright, 
Conceals the wintry waste below. 



VI. 



Farewell ! Farewell ! I will not waste 

Another thought on thee ! 
Thy very name shall be eras'd 

From loathing Memory ! 
I only blush my heart has been 
The dwelling-place of one so mean ! 

Love's fetters may again be worn, 

If Anger break the chain ; 
But, sever'd by Contempt, or Scorn, 

They ne'er unite again. 
My soul, whatever pangs it prove, 
Despises thee too much to love. 



SONGS. 157 

The fickle fool at will may range, 

From note, and censure free ; 
But, when a heart like thine can change, 

It sinks to infamy. 
The sailor, should the magnet stray, 
Would hurl the worthless steel away. 



VII. 



If to know thy fond affection 
Constant as the light of day ; 

If to chase from recollection 
Every jealous fear away ; 

If to prize thy love more dearly 
Than the wealth of India's shore, 

Be to trust thee most sincerely, 

Then I ne'er shall doubt thee more. 

If to love thee more than ever, 
If to weep, when none can see, 

O'er the faults, that bade us sever, 
Can atone my wrongs to thee ; 



158 SONGS, 

If, oh, if thou canst believe me, 
Who so oft have sworn in vain ; 

Then at once thou may'st receive me 
To thy heart of hearts again ! 



VIII. 

HUNTING SONG; 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 

Soon as day is breaking, 
Hunter, greet the morn ! 

Alpine echoes waking 
With thy jocund horn. 

Swift the deer is flying 

Hill, and vale across ; 
Soon his blood, in dying, 

Stains the mountain moss. 

High the Vulture's pinion 

Hovers o'er his prey ; 
King of air's dominion, 

Thou must fall to-day ! 



SONGS. 159 



All thine eye, exploring 

Earth's wide realms, can see, 

All in air that's soaring, 
Hunter, is for thee ! 



IX. 

I dream'd that thou of endless love 
Did'st give me many a cherish'd token ; 

But, when I seem'd most bliss to prove, 
My sleep, my heart, at once were broken. 

Alas, if thou had'st lov'd me still, 

I could have borne all meaner sorrows, 

But Fate, to make them surely kill, 

With thy unkindness points her arrows. 



X. 

The fever of the world has dried 

The dew, our last sweet meeting shed. 

And all the flowers, that love supplied 
So freshly then, are soil'd and dead : 



160 SONGS. 

My heart is pining to be fed 

With thy dear looks ; Oh, haste thee then ! 
And all, that now is lost, and fled, 

Thy presence shall restore again. 

Yet not by words my heart will speak, 

When loosen'd from its long restraint ; 
The eloquence of eye, and cheek, 

Alone, will my emotions paint : 
Each rapturous hope, each fond complaint 

Will brighten there, or softly melt : 
Beside the one we love, how faint 

Is all that's said to all that's felt! 



XI. 

Oh, marvel not that I should weep, 
When all around so blest appears ; 

So full the cup of Joy is fill'd, 
It cannot but run o'er in tears. 

Oh, ask not, when I gaze on thee, 
Why tears are trembling in mine eye, 

'Tis colder love alone can smile, 
But mine must either weep, or die. 



S 



SONGS. 161 



XII. 



When o'er my brow steals Sorrow's deepening shroud, 

Oh, bid me not the fatal cause reveal ! 
Not for the wealth of worlds would I o'ercloud 

Thy young, clear spirit, with the pangs I feel. 

It is not meet thine early years should share 

The painful knowledge, Time must render thine ; 

Yet Heaven avert, that even Time should e'er 
Instruct thy breast as fatally as mine ! 

No ! Be thou still the light of this sad soul, 
Whose life, in joy or grief, thou still must be; 

Then, ev'n if Woe my destiny controul, 
I yet may smile, I yet may hope, in thee. 

Not all forlorn the wither'd tree is seen, 
O'er which the ivy has its mantle thrown ; 

And many an eye mistakes the clustering green, 
That veils the leafless branches, for its own. 

Oh, if thy light of gladness should depart, 

If Hope should cease in those dear eyes to shine, 

How could I live ? This much-enduring heart 
Bears its own sorrows ; but must break with thine. 



162 SONGS. 



XIII. 



There were two hearts, that ask'd 
More than the world could give, 

And each in silence mask'd 
What in. its depths did live. 

They met ; and Sorrow fled ; 

The chilling spell was broken ; 
And each the other read, 

Before a word was spoken. 

They spoke ; and every word 
ThrilPd rapture, as it fell ; 

A language each had heard, 
Yet where they could not tell. 

They blended ; Death came soon, 
But, oh, he could not sever 

Hearts thus twin'd in one ; 
So made them one for ever ! 



SONGS. 163 



XIV. 



Amid the west, the light decaying, 
Like joy, looks loveliest ere it dies ; 

On ocean's breast the small waves playing 
Catch the last lustre, as they rise. 

Scarce the blue curling tide displaces 

One pebble, in its gentle ebb ; 
Scarce on the smooth sand leaves its traces, 

In meshes, fine as fairy's web. 

From many a stone, the sea-weed, streaming, 
Now floats, now falls, the waves between, 

Its yellow berries brighter seeming 
Amid the wreaths of dusky green. 

This is the hour the lov'd are dearest, 
This is the hour the sever'd meet ; 

The dead, the distant now are nearest, 
And joy is soft, and sorrow sweet 



164 SONGS. 



XV. 
SONG OF A MAD GIRL 

Come, I will take fresh posies, 

To bind about my brow ; 
But I will take no roses, 

For they too brightly glow ; 

And the nightingale is bringing 
To the rose his constant lay ; 

But my false love is singing 
To one, that's far away. 

None, none shall see me tearing 
One branch from the olive-tree, 

For Peace, that chaplet wearing, 
Has made it unmeet for me : 

The heart's-ease I'll not sever 
From the stem whereon it grew ; 

For with that, which is lost for ever, 
Oh, what have I to do ? 



SONGS. 165 



Far hence be the ivy carried, 
That clasps about the pine, 

Because the ivy's married, 
And a lonely lot is mine ; 

Nor, 'mid the chosen number, 
May the scarlet poppy blow, 

For the poppy causeth slumber, 
And mine is sleepless woe. 

But I will take the willow, 
A mourner, like to me, 

With leaves all sear and yellow, 
My faded wreath to be ; 

The yew, to mark my sadness, 
With cypress I'll entwine ; 

The rush, the toy of madness, 
Oh, must it not be mine ? 



166 SONGS. 



XVI. 



THE COMPLAINT OF A GIRL FORSAKEN 
BY HER LOVER. 

The only mourner o'er my tomb 

Will be the cypress, or the yew, 
The only tears, that there shall fall, 

Will be the drops of Nature's dew ; 

And thou, who once could'st love, but now 
Art dead, ah, worse than dead, to me ! 

One hour shall from thy thoughts efface 
That I have been, or ceas'd to be. 

These eyes meet thine, but read no more 
The answer, they were wont to give, 

And time has shewn them skill'd to wound, 
As once too practis'd to deceive. 

Ah, if my death could wring one tear 
From that chang'd heart and alter'd eye, 

How gladly could I lay me down, 
And die, and think it bliss to die ! 



SONGS. 167 

But no ! Love's once-extinguish'd fires 
Can ne'er their former warmth regain ; 

As embers mouldering into dust, 
Can never, never burn again. 



XVII. 



I know thee, now, yet cannot tear 
Thine image from my breast ; 

In virtue's spite, it lingers there, 
A fear'd, yet cherish'd guest. 

So, the poor moth can ne'er retire, 
Which once the taper burns ; 

He thought it light, and found it fire, 
Yet, ev'n in death, returns. 



168 SONGS. 

XVIII. 
SONG OF THE SEA-NYMPHS. 

Far from the realms of air, 

In the coral groves we dwell, 
And our gardens are deck'd with the sea-weed rare, 

And our home is the pearly shell. 

When the moon is softly bright, 

The rippling tide we stem, 
And 'tis we, who draw the line of light 

Round the horizon's hem. 

In the wake of the glancing boat, 

We sport, where the wave is riven, 
Round the foam of the oar in brightness float, 

Like stars, o'er the ocean's heaven. 

When the storm is raging loud, 

And down sinks the bark in the wave, 

Of sea-weed we weave the sailor's shroud, 
And dig deep his sandy grave : 



SONGS. 169 

Or, to warn him, ere the shock 

Stifle his dying groan, 
We kindle a flame, on the cold barren rock, 

Where earthly flame never shone. 

When bright is the western blaze, 

Where Phosbus his goal has won, 
We wed the waves to his golden rays, 

The bridal of sea and sun. 

Mortal, our life is sweet ; 

Would'st thou be blest, as we, 
From the turmoil, and stir of the world retreat, 

And dwell by the lonely sea ! 



XIX. 
THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN. 

Far, far away o'er the western sea, 

Where that long line of light looks pale, 

My child, thy father's bark I see, 
Oh, swiftly may she sail ! 



170 SONGS. 

I know her by the streamer red, 
That flutters from the mast, 

Which still he promis'd me to spread, 
Returning home at last. 

But, look, the winds, the waves arise, 
And the streak of light is gone, 

And wild, o'er the darkly-alter'd skies, 
The clouds drive thickly on. 

I see, I see the lightnings gleam ! 

I pant, I die with fear ! 
Oh, is it not ? It is a scream, 

That strikes upon mine ear ! 

Oh, save him ! Save him ! He is sav'd ! 

Wet with the salt sea tide, 
The raging billows he has brav'd, 

And now is at her side. 

How sweet is rapture after fear ! 

" Welcome, welcome, thou, 
My bosom's dearest; but how dear 

I never knew 'till now !" 



SONGS. 171 

XX. 

WRITTEN TO SUIT A WILD GERMAN AIR. 

When wild winds are swelling 

Around my lone dwelling, 
Like spirits, that talk to the dull ear of Night ; 
When the Moon, through her clouds, sheds a dim, 

sickly light, 
And the trav'ller, bewilder'd, hears, wild with affright, 

The fiend of the tempest loud yelling ; 

Oh, then, slowly stealing, 

Their forms half-concealing, 
Through the gloom airy shadows of past days come nigh, 
And, Memory, thy voice seems to speak in each sigh 
Of the deep-sobbing blast, that moans fitfully by, 

Sad tales of past sorrow revealing. 

My lone watch thus keeping, 

While mortals are steeping, 
In the soft dews of slumber, each care of the mind, 
How oft at thy side, lonely mourner, reclin'd, 
In silence I grieve, to thy visions resign'd, 

O'er the grave of past happiness weeping. 

i 2 



172 SONGS. 



XXI. 



Night, thy lone shades I once abhorr'd, 
Because they tore the maid away, 

Lovely as light, as life ador'd, 

And still I sigh'd for lingering day. 

Sleep, thou, ev'n thou, could'st not disarm 
Absence of pain, by dreams of thine ; 

How could thy vain illusions charm, 
When dear reality was mine ? 

Now, welcome, Night, for she is gone, 
Who made the day so gladly fly, 

That I beneath thy star, alone, 
May muse upon her memory. 

And welcome to my pillow, Sleep, 
Now, kindliest soother of my woe, 

In bliss, my vision'd senses steep, 

Which, ah, they cannot, waking, know ! 



SONGS. ' 173 



XXII. 



Those tears, those tears will rise to view, 
Which, at our parting, thou didst shed, 

And vividly the thought renew 
Of days departed, pleasures fled. 

Oh, there is somewhat in the tear 

Of one we love, that thrills each vein, 

Beyond ev'n sorrow, hope, or fear, 

With strange, yet sadly-pleasing, pain ! 

Tis sweet, because we feel, in grief, 
More closely drawn to those we love, 

And, softly whispering fond relief, 
More melting tenderness we prove. 

And yet we cannot bear to see 

That face, whose smiles were wont to glow, 
Our sunshine, and our extasy, 

Wear ev'n the transient garb of woe. 

We hasten, from the moisten'd cheek, 

To kiss away the falling tear, 
And, yet, if love the truth should speak, 

Oh, would we it had not been there ? 



174 SONGS. 



XXIII. 



There was a time, when all things smil'd 
Beneath gay youth's enchanted reign ; 

And barren heath, and wintry wild 
Seem'd cheerful, as the vernal plain. 

But, now, when peace, and hope are fled, 
And youthful innocence beguil'd, 

The vocal grove, the flowery mead 
Seem cheerless as the wintry wild. 



XXIV. 



Nay, do not wake the lyre again ! 

For to a heart, unstrung as mine, 
The softest, sweetest notes, in vain, 

Their witching melody combine. 

The pulse of Joy, to lively tones, 
In careless extasy, may bound, 

While Mirth the kindred measure owns, 
And trips the gay, fantastic round. 



SONGS. 175 

To tender numbers Love may melt, 
To lofty strains may Courage fire ; 

And, oh, how oft has Sorrow dwelt, 
Enamour'd, on the pensive lyre ! 

To all, save me, thy skill divine 
Some touch responsive may afford, 

But to a heart, unstrung as mine, 
All music owns no answering chord. 



XXV. 
CONSTANCY. 

Let love burn with fiercest flame, 
If to more than one it fly, 

'Tis not worthy of the name : 
The crown of love is constancy ! 

Let love still adore the same, 
If it fade with cheek, or eye, 

'Tis not worthy of the name : 
The crown of love is constancy ! 



176 SONGS. 

Let it be love, no force can tame, 
If, absent, it burn less than nigh, 

Tis not worthy of the name : 
The crown of love is constancy ! 

Give me the love, whose faithful aim 
Can absence, change, and time, defy ; 

This is worthy of the name : 
This is crown'd with constancy ! 



XXVI. 



Swift, to climes of brighter day, 
Where the warmer breezes play, 

Fly with me, fly with me ! 
Where the dark-brow'd Alps, impending, 
Frowns with Nature's smiles are blending, 

Fly with me, fly with me ! 

We will scale their beetling brows, 
We will brush their printless snows, 

Merrily, merrily; 
Then, to gentler vales descending, 
Roam, by brook, or forest wending, 

Peacefully, peacefully ! 



SONGS. 177 

Tir'd of all, I see around, 
Oh, to break each hated bond, 

Rapidly, rapidly ! 
From foes, false friends, and tumult, flying, 
With thee alone I'd live; and, dying, 

Smile on thee, smile on thee ! 



XXVII. 



Hie we to the forest bower, 

Freshly shines the morning beam, 

Gilds the mountain, tips the tower, 
Trembles on the restless stream. 

Lightly falls a wandering ray 

On the tender beech-leaves ; mark 

How their wanton shadows play 
O'er the silvery, sunny bark ! 

Listening for the hunters' cry, 
Ere he leap the babbling brook, 

See the stag, with anxious eye, 
Timidly around him look. 

i 5 



178 SONGS. 

High above the deep defiles 

Graceful waves the feather'd fern ; 

Nature's beauties, Nature's smiles 
Greet us, wheresoe'er we turn. 

While we loiter, while we stray, 
Through the forest's long arcade, 

Hearkening to the woodlark's lay, 

Gathering flowers, that love the shade, 

Health breathes fresh in every gale, 
In each sunbeam Joy appears ; 

Hope repeats her blithest tale, 

Memory smiles through all her tears. 



XXVIII. 



No, Lady, 'tis not words can tell 
The all I feel, yet fail to speak, 

Though, haply, thou may'st view it well, 
In varying eye, or changing cheek. 

Believe the love is not like mine, 

That finds expression paint its flame : 

Nor is the mind, dear Maid, like thine, 
Which homage poor as this, can claim. 



SONGS. 179 

As some lone lamp's refulgent ray 

Amid the darkness brightly glows, 
And, lost amid the beams of day, 

Around, a sickly radiance throws, 

To every gazer's eye reveal'd, 

Love feebly wavers, soon expires, 
But, deep within the heart conceal'd, 

Like mine, it burns with quenchless fires. 



XXIX. 



Belov'd in vain, the hardest lot 
With thee 'twere bliss to share ; 

But thus to see, to hear thee not, 
I cannot, cannot bear ! 

Oh, that I were yon reckless bird, 

That skims the air so free, 
How blithely should my note be heard, 

While flying swift to thee ! 

The wind might chill my ruffled breast, 

The rain my pinions beat ; 
But never, never would I rest, 

Save, dearest, at thy feet. 



180 SONGS. 

Ev'n did but one last spark remain 
Of life's exhausted fire, 

Thy presence it were spent to gain, 
And there in bliss expire ! 



XXX. 



Think'st thou on me? How oft that thought 

Recurs in joy, or pain ! 
As all, that now can cheer my lot, 

Or bid me hope again. 

Think'st thou on me ? Oh, if thou dost, 

Misfortune frowns in vain ; 
And though her bonds be rude, has lost , 

The rivet of her chain. 

Think'st thou on me ? Where'er I rove, 

By forest, glen, or rill. 
I ask of trembling, doubting love 

The anxious question still. 

Think'st thou on me ? Oh, if thou heed 

No more love's broken tie, 
Let me expire, before I read 

That answer in thine eye ! 



SONGS. 181 



XXXI. 



Thou say'st that grief my looks reveal, 
Too well thy tender thoughts divine ; 

Too fondly hop'd I to conceal 

The woe that swells my heart, from thine. 

Oh, we have read each other's face 
In joy, and grief; in hope, and fear, 

'Till not a passion's lighest trace, 

Unseen, could shine, or darken there ! 



XXXII. 



When all, that once seem'd good, or fair, 
Grows vile, and loathsome in my view, 

When vows are held as light as air, 

Tho' heaven were call'd to prove them true 

When memory is from thought estrang'd, 
The past all vanish'd from my ken, 

The essence of my being chang'd, 
I may forget ; but not 'till then ! 



182 SONGS. 



XXXIII. 



Oh, were we, side by side, to stand 

Amid the battle's line, 
The shafts of war must pierce my heart, 

Before they reach 'd to thine ! 

Or were a sword above my head, 

My life at once to end, 
Unless I sign'd thy doom of death, 

Oh, quick let it descend ! 

Or were we in a dungeon's gloom, 

And freedom might be mine, 
That dungeon still should be my tomb. 

If it were also thine ! 

Or, were we sunk in drifting snows, 
My breast thy couch should be ; 

I'd fold thee round ; thou should 'st not die, 
While life remain'd in me. 



SONGS. 183 



XXXIV. 



Across my troubled path of life 

One moment glanc'd thy angel form, 

As one sweet moonbeam, 'mid the strife 
Of mingling clouds, divides the storm. 

Oh, could I deem that thou would'st deign 
To waste a transient thought on me, 

'Twould lighten half my bosom's pain, 
But no, it may not, cannot be ! 

Why should'st thou think on him, whose sighs 

Have never met thy gentle ear, 
To whom thy timid, downcast eyes 

Were scarcely rais'd, when he was near ? 

Whose heart but marr'd his conscious tongue, 
And, when he faltering strove to speak, 

Upon bis lip the accents hung, 
For, ah, lie gaz'd upon thy cheek ! 

This, this my anguish, to have seen 
What never more these eyes shall see, 

And thou shalt be, as thou hast been, 

As though thou ne'er had'st iook'd on me. 



1 84 SONGS. 

So, having hurl'd a random dart, 
The archer takes his onward way, 

Regardless of the stricken hart, 
That bleeds its lingering life away. 



XXXV. 



Oh, dark,, and drear is the moonless night, 

And the wind howls in the tree, 
But, Annie, there needs no beacon light, 

To guide my thoughts to thee. 

Silent travellers, swift they go, 

On the wings of the wintry blast, 
O'er the rush of the stream, thro' the drift of the snow, 

Till they rest with thee at last. 

Dost thou not feel my kisses prest 

Warm on thy lip, and cheek, 
The clasp of my arms, and the throb of my breast, 

Too deeply happy to speak ? 

Oh, can these vivid thoughts impart 

Such extasy to me, 
Yet die unshar'd in my lonely heart, 

And be as nought to thee ? 



SONGS. 185 

Oh, that the struggling soul could break 

The barriers around it thrown, 
And to those, it visits in thought, could make 

Its power, and presence known ! 

With a shadow of things, that may not be, 

Let Sleep my bosom thrill ; 
Good night to all the world but thee ! 

In dreams thou'rt with me still. 



XXXVI. 

THE LAST GLEAM OF EVENING. 

" Child of the clouds, fair evening gleam, 

" Fleet not thus, like Fancy's dream!" 

Ev'n while I spoke, my wish was vain ; 

I saw it skim along the plain ; 

Now the wavy woods it kist, 

Melting in an amber mist ; 

Now a diamond glory gave 

To the river's flashing wave. 

Now it languished, faint and dim, 

Till, on the far horizon's rim, 



186 SONGS. 

Its last, and brightest look was given ; 

Then swift it faded into Heaven. 

Ah, Happiness, thy visions fly 

Like this pageant of the sky ! 

Ever lovely, ever fleeting, 

Farther from the eye retreating, 

Thou seem'st, from happier regions hurl'd, 

Impatient of this lower world, 

And wilt not deign one scene to dress 

In more than transient loveliness. 

Where Pleasure's sparkling waters flow, 

One moment bright ; then dimm'd by woe ; 

Most radiant, when forsaking earth, 

To seek the realms, that gave thee birth. 



XXXVII. 



SONG OF AN INDIAN SLAVE, SEPARATED 
FROM HER LOVER. 

Oh, ye, who thus tear me away, 
Your cruelty triumphs in vain, 

Ye may hold us asunder by day, 
But sleep shall unite us again ! 



SONGS. 187 

These poor fragile mansions of clay 
For a while to your bonds are resign'd, 

But, lords of the body/ oh say, 
Possess ye a chain for the mind ? 

And could ye ev'n fetter the soul, 

While life still detains me a slave, 
Oh, say, in your tyrant controul, 

Can ye bind the release of the grave ? 
Beyond that impassable goal 

Your cruelty cannot extend, 
And the hour, when my death-knell shall toll, 

Your reign, and my sorrows, shall end. 

And he, whom afar you convey, 

For a while, from my desolate sight, 
Shall be mine in that rapturous day, 

When his spirit shall take its free flight ; 
Then ye, who thus tear me away, 

Your cruelty triumphs in vain, 
For, divide us through life as ye may, 

'Tis death shall unite us again. 



188 SONGS. 



XXXVIII. 



When Night is closing, drear, and chill, 
Around the traveller's lonely way, 

As far o'er barren heath, and hill, 
His faltering steps, bewilder'd, stray, 

His eye yet dwells upon the streak, 
That marks the track of evening's car, 

Or turns above, in Heaven to seek 
The radiance of some guiding star. 

Thus, when around the present hour 
Misfortune all her clouds has cast, 

The soul, escaping from her power, 
Lives in the future, or the past ; 

And gazes on the parting gleam 

Of pleasures, lost in deep'ning gloom, 

Or fondly seeks the cheering beam, 

Which Hope sheds bright on those to come. 



SONGS. 189 



XXXIX. 

THE FAREWELL, 

Yes, we must part ! perhaps, for ever, 
But Hope would fondly whisper, No ; 

And, ev'n though fate ourselves should sever, 
Our hearts shall not be parted so. 

There is a tie, that binds the soul, 

No time, no distance can controul. 

And, ev'n in absence, there are pleasures 
Of fairy tints, and witching dies, 

More lovely than the bow that measures, 
In soft reflection, earth and skies : 

Such joys, such placid joys, be thine, 

The pang of parting only mine ! 

Canst thou not, when the pensive Ev'ning 
Steals through the silent, shadowy dell, 

And Light, the world reluctant leaving, 
Just turns to smile his last farewell ; 

Canst thou not shape the vapours blue 

Into the form thou'dst wish to view ? 



190 SONGS. 

And, when, upon the gliding river, 
So mildly sweet, the moonbeams play ; 

While the pale leaves of aspen quiver, 
Pierc'd by the silvery, soften'd ray, 

Cannot the breezes whisper near 

The voice, thy bosom pants to hear ? 

So shall all nature ever give thee 
Memorial of thine absent friend ; 

No other record need I leave thee 

Than what her own sweet gifts will lend. 

But, oh ! hush, hush, my idle lay, 

Lest grief at last should find its way. 



XL. 



Remember me, when in thy cot 

The embers glow, 
And think there's one would share thy lot, 

Did fate allow. 

When blithe thou breath'st the morning air, 

Remember me, 
And think how gladly I would share 

Its sweets with thee. 



SONGS. 191 

And if beneath the shade at eve 

Thou pensive lie, 
Oh, still to my remembrance heave 

One tender sigh ! 

I need not say I'll think of thee, 

Thou know'st I will ! 
But wilt thou, wilt thou think of me, 

And love me still ? 

Thou wilt, thou wilt ! that changing cheek, 

That tearful eye, 
More sweetly well than words can speak, 

Enough reply ! 



XLI. 



Not yet, my soul, look back to view 
The rapturous joys, that late were thine, 

By time untouch'd, their brilliant hue 
Would now too brightly, keenly shine. 

Contrasted with the vivid scene, 

How dark would seem the present hour, 

As, where the lightning's path has been, 
Th' impending clouds more deeply low 'r. 



192 SONGS. 

When Time's soft twilight, stealing on, 
Has shed subdued a mellower ray ; 

When all the grief of grief is flown, 
Then turn, and gaze thyself away ! 

But, should too much the colours fade, 
Too quickly lose their wonted fire, 

Fond Memory then shall lend her aid, 
Nor let one cherish'd trace expire. 



XLII. 



As, at the early break of dawn, 

Sooth'd by the billows ceaseless roar, 

Alone, and lost in fancy's dreams, 
I stray'd along the winding shore, 

My thoughts, afar from shore, or sea, 

Oh, best-belov'd, took wing to thee ! 

And, as a sadly-pleasing train 
Of mournful recollections rose, 

(For Memory, skilful as the bee, 
Extracts a honey, ev'n from woes) 

I traced, with half-unconscious hand, 

Thy name upon the silver sand. 



SONGS. 193 



Again th' unheeding tide shall flow, 
Where late its swelling billows came. 

And from the yielding sand efface 
Each vestige of the cherish'd name ; 

But Time his waves may vainly roll, 

Where it lies graven on my soul. 



XLIII. 



Hoar Winter returns on the footsteps of Spring, 
And snows o'er the May-tree their cold mantle fling, 
And, the copse-border'd gardens lone alleys along, 
The Nightingale ceases his sweet vernal song. 

For, alas, the fair queen of the lay, his lov'd rose, 
That had dar'd to the day her frail beauties disclose, 
Now fann'd by the breeze, and now bent by the blast, 
Droops her pale, pensive head, and is withering fast. 

Ah, thus, if beguil'd, in Life's bright-dawning day, 
The young heart expand to the World's flatt'ring ray, 
The chill blast arises, clouds sweep o'er the sky ; 
Like yon lonely Rose, it must wither, and die. 

K 



194 SONGS. 



XLIV. 

It was a winter's evening-, 

When a beauteous maid I met, 

The heav'ns were rosy beaming 
With the sun that had lately set ; 

But, oh, her cheek was of lovelier die 

Than ev'n those roses of the sky ! 

The snow was glittering' brightly, 

As o'er it she tript, so fleet, 
That scarce she left on it lightly, 

The print of her little feet, 
And still her cheek look'd fresh and fair, 
Beside the snow, that sparkled there. 

One star, in the west, was shining, 
But I turn'd from the realms of space, 

To gaze on the beams, combining 
Their lustre, in her face ; 

And there a sister-star could spy, 

In the blue heaven of her eye. 



SONGS. 195 

One soft, dark cloud was braiding 
Its waves with the golden gleams, 

That along the west were fading, 
Like Fancy's fairy dreams ; 

And in her locks, I could behold 

Such soft dark braids, such tints of gold. 

From Spring I may not borrow 
, Charms more akin to thee, 
For I sing in despair and sorrow, 

Thou art wintry cold to me ! 
Yet even Winter shews thee fair, 
Oh, how much more than others are ! 



XLV. 
A MORNING HYMN. 

When morn's returning beams inspire 

The birds' enraptur'd lays, 
How glows my mind to wake the lyre, 

And join the general praise ! 

k 2 



196 MORNING HYMN. 

While nature's quiristers rejoice 
Thy blessings, Lord, to share, 

And tune for thee each rival voice, 
Shall mine be wanting there ? 

How sweet, from every herb, and flower, 
That freshen'd fragrance steals, 

Known only when the morning hour 
Its dewy light reveals ! 

When odours, whereso'er I stray, 
From earth's great altar rise, 

Shall Gratitude neglect to pay 
Her nobler sacrifice ? 

On all thy sun benignant beams, 

For all, thy breezes blow ; 
For all, thy cool abundant streams 

Lead freshness, where they flow ; 

Thy flowers, for all, perfume the sod 

Thy fruits for all provide ; 
To all, Thou liv'st; but Thou, O God, 

For man alone hast died ! 



SONNETS. 



SONNETS. 



TO THE SEA. 

Chief of God's works ! In grandeur of repose, 
Or majesty of turbulence, to me 
Still art thou beautiful, most glorious Sea ! 
And oft, when Morning on thy mirror glows, 
Or Twilight's shadowy curtains round thee close, 
I gaze, with full-expanded soul, on thee, 
The boundless Heaven, thy only boundary. 
Thee, at thy birth, th' Almighty Maker chose 
Aye to resound his everlasting praise ; 
Thy solemn-sounding diapason suits 
The theme of his tremendous attributes, 
When thy full waves the lofty chorus raise ; 
And, murmuring sweet as Angels' golden lutes, 
His mercy whispers in thy softer lays. 



200 SONNETS. 



II. 

THE WINTER MORNING. 

When on the Sun's broad orb distinct is seen 
(As slow it rises on the watchful view 
From yon slope hill) the tall firs' dusky hue, 
And the long rays, piercing the woodland screen 
In separate lines, and glistering rainbow sheen, 
Bid the wild forms, that Frost fantastic drew 
On the dimm'd pane, dissolve in amber dew, 
I, in my studious cell, taste joy serene, 
And think how many, at this cheerful hour, 
Self-doom'd, within the City's noisome air, 
Quench the free play of every mental power, 
Wooing dull Slumber on the couch of Care, 
Regardless of the high celestial dower, 
Which Nature's own devoted children share. 



SONNETS. 201 



III. 

THE WINTER EVENING. 

The wintry Evening frowns. The moaning trees 

Shiver, despoiled of their raiment proud, 

Lour the dull skies with many a murky cloud, 

Hurrying before the wildly-driving breeze ; 

Dimly, far off, along the upland leas, I 

The tempest travels in its misty shroud, 

While, in the vale, the surging vapors crowd, 

Rolling their billows, like conflicting seas. 

Fitfully borne upon the gusty wind 

The heavy rain-drop beats upon my face, 

Yet, rais'd to kindred thought, my musing mind 

In Nature still a pensive charm can trace, 

As of some beauteous mourner, who, resign'd 

To chilling sorrow, droops in wonted grace. 



k 5 



202 SONNETS. 



IV. 

ON LEAVING SURREY. 

Hascombe, to those blue streams, that gladdening lave 

Thy wood-embroider'd vale, still Evening lent 

Her mellowing tints ; the bough, enamour'd, bent 

To kiss its soft reflection in the wave ; 

And every breathing flower, dew-sprinkled, gave 

More richly to the gale its summer scent, 

When last, in youthful hope, I gaily went 

To bid thy banks adieu. Now, boisterous rave 

Wild-howling winds, and Winter's hand has torn 

Autumn's last relic from the storm-rock'd tree. 

I too with spoiling grief have droop'd forlorn 

Since my stray footsteps wander'd far from thee, 

And now, thy joyless scenes appear to mourn, 

Accordant still, as when they smil'd with me. 



SONNETS. 203 



THE TARN.* 

O solitary Tarn, within thy breast 
Dwelling of man has ne'er reflected been, 
Nor on its sacred purity serene 
Hath, from Creation's dawn, been aught imprest, 
Save the wild forms, that Solitude loves best ; 
The sky, the rock, the mountain's trackless green, 
Form the sole grandeur of the simple scene, 
Which closes round thee in such perfect rest. 
Oh, how above all mortals blest were he, 
To whom a bosom pure as thine were given, 
Thus from the World's unholy image free, 
Thus shelter 'd from Life's storms, and ever even, 
Reflecting Nature's simplest forms, like thee, 
Its depths, like thine, reserv'd for only Heaven. 



* A tarn is a small mountain-lake. 



204 SONNETS. 



VI. 

ON SHAKESPEARE. 

Where the tall chesnuts, waving to the breeze. 
Extend their venerable pomp of shade, 
And all their leafy bowers are vocal made 
By the soft music of the murmuring bees, 
That hang upon their bloom, thee, gentle Ease, 
Who lov'st the turf, the moss, the thymy glade, 
I woo, on flowery hillock careless laid, 
While Shakespeare's numbers on my fancy seize. 
Round the dark trunks of yon romantic trees 
I see the Elves their summer dances braid ; 
Now, to the jocund horn's inspiring cheer, 
A troop of joyous foresters sweep by ; 
Anon, bright Spirits glide along the sky, 
And Ariel's lonely lute enchants the ear. 



SONNETS. 205 



m 



VII. 

WRITTEN ON A MOONLIGHT NIGHT. 

Oh for a Claude's soft pencil swift to trace, 

Ere yet they fade, the hues of yonder cloud, 

That o'er the Moon hath flung its melting shroud, 

To catch the semblance of its silvery grace ! 

'Tis fled ; and o'er her meek-submitting face 

The darker vapours turbulently crowd ; 

Now, with slow majesty, serenely proud, 

She rises into clear, cerulean space, 

Up the blue vault, from staining shadows free, 

Still as she climbs, she sheds a purer beam, 

Aspiring thus to Virtue's heavenly height, 

Is the soul purified through each degree 

Of brightening splendour, till she reach supreme 

The full meridian of her holy light. 



206 SONNETS. 



VIII. 

ON A LADY SINGING. 

The touching pathos of thy low, sweet voice 
Fell on my soul, like dew on drooping flowers, 
And breath'd such memory of departed hours, 
As made me weep, yet, in my grief, rejoice. 
Again I seem'd to be a happy child, 
Listening some sad, and wildly-warbled lay, 
With quiet-streaming tears. Now, far away, 
Where'er my truant footsteps are beguil'd, 
Thy plaintive tones, recall'd by night, and day, 
Linger in Memory's echo-haunted cell, 
Mournful, yet full of joy; nor know I well 
Whether to chide them, or to bid them stay, 
Yet play in this the lover's wayward part, 
Still clasping the lov'd sorrow to my heart. 



SONNETS. 207 



IX. 

TO FANNY, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

Spring should have claim'd thy birthday, lovely Maid ; 

She, in her sweet caprice, and sparkling" glee, 

With touches of deep tenderness ailay'd, 

Breaking from tears, so much resembles thee ! 

Then had her violets, breathing in the shade, 

Her gay birds, caroling on every tree, 

Thy poet's duteous homage well array 'd 

In many an apt, and glowing simile. 

Now, pensive Autumn steals along the glade, 

And I, alas, can no resemblance find 

In all her charms to thine ; save the rich braid 

Of golden tresses, which her brow doth bind ; 

Yet in her generous stores I see portray'd 

The lavish wealth, and bounty of thy mind. 



208 SONNETS. 



TO ADA, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 



No costly offerings, on thy day of birth, 

Are pour'd around thee by the festive crowd, 

Yet Love can give a simple floweret worth 

Above the rich oblations of the proud. 

Thou wilt not hear the gratulations loud 

Of many voices, but thy quiet hearth 

Shall witness many a heartfelt wish avow'd, 

And echo daily to the heart's own mirth . 

And, of the voices, that shall wish thee blest, 

Still blest with him, whose fate is link'd with thine, 

And pray, that ever, in thy gentle breast, 

The light of holiest happiness may shine, 

With all, that Heav'n can promise, Earth give best, 

None, Ada, can be more sincere than mine. 



SONNETS. 209 



XI. 
ON A DESERTED VILLAGE, IN CUMBERLAND. 



Fit shroud art thou, O sable grove of fir, 
For yon dismantled dwellings, where no more 
The sounds of rustic labour, as of yore, 
Nor laugh, nor song of joyous villager 
Rouse the dull air, nor aught is seen to stir, 
Save yonder restless springs, that, bursting o'er, 
Through the rank grass their scatter'd waters pour. 
Oft to this scene Remembrance will recur, 
When Melancholy seeks some kindred spot 
Amid the past, where calmly she may weep, 
And here, when foes have pierc'd, or friends forgot, 
Her quiet watch shall Resignation keep 
With unobtrusive Woe, that speaketh not, 
Nursing sad thoughts, as silent rivers, deep. 



210 SONNETS. 



XII. 

THE STORMY NIGHT. 

Shrill shrieks the North wind, to the sullen surge 

Responding, as it breaks with hoarse, dull moan ; 

There's anguish in the sharp, impatient tone, 

A mourner's answer to a funeral dirge 

O'er one belov'd. I tread the cliff's steep verge, 

Ev'n at this dark, tempestuous hour, alone, 

Yet not in loneliness ; for He, whose throne 

Is on the clouds, whose car the wild winds urge, 

Is with me. 'Tis the Lord's majestic voice, 

That makes such awful music ! Yea, ev'n now. 

With a deep bliss, my spirit can rejoice, 

In Nature's lofty terrors, while I bow 

To His controul, whom winds and waves obey, 

My soul, more wild, more turbulent than thev. 



SONNETS. 21 1 



XIII. 

ON SURREY. 

Dear native county, what unnumber'd ties 
Have bound me to thee ! Not alone that thou 
Art England's Eden, nor that, musing slow, 
I love to wander where thy sand-rocks rise 
Above thy bowery lanes, and catch the sighs 
Of the pure gales, which o'er thy wild heaths blow, 
And climb, at morn, or eve, some hill's steep brow, 
To watch the brightening, or the fading skies, 
But dear domestic bonds, which still more fast 
Time round my heart draws ever, as he flies, 
Fond Memory, with her pictures of the past, 
And winning tales of Childhood's simple joys, 
And Hope, who dreams, that, in thy vales at last, 
Some friendly hand shall close my peaceful eyes. 



212 SONNETS. 



XIV. 

WRITTEN AT CAMBRIDGE. 

Here let me sit, upon this shaded stile, 
Where none but rustic sights may meet mine eye, 
And rural sounds alone steal murmuring by, 
That dreams of thee, sweet Surrey, for awhile 
The view of cheated Fancy may beguile : 
Yon clouds, high-pil'd amid the western sky, 
Thy hills, thy rocks, thy woodlands shall supply, 
And, like thy brooks, their tints of amber smile. 
As the Swiss exile, should he haply hear 
The melting wildness of his native strain, 
Pines for his home ; so I, condemn'd to wear 
The livelong day on Cam's unvaried plain, 
If aught more rural meet my eye, or ear, 
O Surrey, pant to climb thy hills again ! 



SONNETS. 213 



XV. 

THE MOONLIGHT WALK. 

The last vibration of the midnight bell, 
While in the cloister's solemn gloom I stray. 
Ebbs on the undulating air away, 
And slow retires from every echoing cell : 
Emerging then where Cynthia's beams dispel 
Night's deeper shades, and tinge the trees with gray, 
I bathe mine eyes in the mild, tranquil ray, 
So grateful, when day's glare has bid farewell. 
Now steals a softer moonlight o'er the mind ; 
Life's poor illusions quit the clearer sight ; 
No more to this low-thoughted sphere confin'd, 
Devotion wings to Heaven her angel flight ; 
And Contemplation, mournful, yet resign'd, 
Hails, with calm joy, her own beloved light. 



214 SONNETS. 



XVI. 
TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Nightingale, they do sweet Nature wrong, 
Who say that Grief inspires thy nightly strain ; 
When did she teach her children to complain ? 
No ! 'Tis exuberant rapture swells thy song, 

A joy, unknown to the unholy throng, 
Who the blest name of happiness profane. 
Returning from thy lonely woodland reign, 
Now, as I pace the midnight streets along, 

1 hear the uproar of intemperate mirth. 
There is true sadness in the sensual sound, 
Idle as ideot laughter in the throat 

Of hollow death. 'Tis Man untunes the earth, 
And seems a jarring, and discordant note, 
Where peaceful harmony prevails around. 



SONNETS. 215 



XVII. 
ON HAGLEY. 

Not that the cunning ministry of Art, 

With rustic edifice, and pillar'd seat, 

O Hagley, has adorn'd thy fair retreat, 

Does Ecstasy her silent thrill impart 

To thy true votaries. The longing heart, 

The wistful eye, from these, will turn to greet 

The works of Nature, whether at our feet 

She spread her treasures, or her varied chart 

Afar unroll, as from thy steepy hills 

We gaze, and all our upward toil repay. 

Not ev'n the Bards, who sang thy groves, and rills, 

Can charm the homage of our thoughts away; 

'Tis Nature all the yielding spirit fills, 

'Tis Nature's God demands th' exulting lay. 



216 SONNETS. 



XVIII. 
THE CHOICE. 

When Reason made me capable of choice, 
To me three Sister Nymphs, yet rivals, came, 
Each strove my young affections to inflame, 
And fix me hers for life. With warbled voice, 
Whose tones would now exultingly rejoice, 
Now melt in woe, the first preferr'd her claim. 
The next display'd, with fond, ambitious aim, 
All gorgeous colours, that might most entice 
The yielding will. But, oh, the third drew nigh, 
And won me with her smile. Her bright eyes dart 
Their sunbeams on my soul. Entranc'd I cry, 
O best, and loveliest, teach me all thine art, 
Let thy sweet sisters rule mine ear, or eye, 
But thou alone reign mistress of my heart. 



SONNETS. 217 



XIX. 

ON THE PAINTING OF SALVATOR ROSA. 

Salvator ! Let these silent tears applaud 
The savage wonders, that thy pencil dealt I 
What bursting transport must thy soul have felt 
When thy conceptions leapt in light abroad, 
And, half at its own miracles o'eraw'd, 
Thy Genius at the shrine of Nature knelt ! 
How deeply in thy glorious spirit dwelt 
Th' immortal energy, that shall defraud 
Time, and Oblivion! Fir'd with joy sublime, 
My fancy rushes on the burning hour, 
When thy mind travail'd with some mighty birth, 
Transfus'd into thy thoughts, I venturous climb, 
With thee, to pluck Fame's amaranthine flower, 
Trampling the sceptres, and the gaudes of earth. 



218 SONNETS. 



XX. 

ON GENIUS. 

Prometheus, was not the celestial fire, 
Thy bold hand snatch'd to quicken sluggish clay, 
That subtle spark, that rapture-kindling ray, 
On earth call'd Genius ? Soul of Poet's lyre, 
Of Painter's touch ? Of Music's seraph-choir 
Th' informing spirit? And, Pygmalion, say, 
Did not thy matchless statue life display, 
Touch'd by that torch, which can alone inspire 
The breathing stone ? Oh, heaven-descended guest, 
Still hold me captive to thy blest controul ! 
I own thee sovereign of my willing soul, 
Lord of my tears, and smiles. Divinely blest, 
Might I pierce boldly to thy inner shrine, 
Nor only worship thee, but call thee mine ! 






SONNETS. 219 



XXI. 

THE COPSE. 

I love to roam, at morning, through yon copse, 
Forgetful of the busy World's alarms, 
Where, o'er my path, their intermingling arms 
Gray hazels weave, glittering with pendent drops 
Of orient dew ; what time, the cluster'd hops, 
Through their thin veil, display their early charms, 
And the white ridges of the distant farms 
Shine, 'mid the varied green of waving crops, 
Like foam on ocean's bosom. There, the song 
Of the gay Thrush, in many an artless trill 
Warbled, the gales, that softly float along, 
Mix'd with the murmur of the moaning rill, 
Hush every fond complaint of Fortune's wrong, 
Grief for past joy, or fear of future ill. 



220 SONNETS. 



XXII. 

ON FANCY. 

Oh Fancy, when a child, too rashly bold, 

I found thee coil'd beneath the lonely shade, 

And took thee for my chaplet ; as 'tis told, 

Forth from her cottage stole an Indian maid, 

And, as she wander'd down the deepening glade, 

Espied a snake, in hues of green and gold, 

And glittering panoply of light array'd. 

Round her smooth brow the shining death she roll'd, 

With childish glee, in many a wanton braid, 

The dark redundance of her locks to hold, 

And, of the glassy brook, a mirror made, 

To view, and vary every sportive fold. 

Sudden she starts ; she shrieks, in frantic pain ! 

Death, keenly shivering, darts through every vein. 



SONNETS. 221 



XXIII. 

COMPOSED ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

Tis night ! I sit me down npon the shore ; 

The blank mist darkens on my baffled eye, 

Interminably mingling sea, and sky ; 

No sound I hear save the dull billows' roar. 

The soul, thrown back upon herself to pore, 

Is mystery. I ask, what, whence am I ? 

Then, trembling, glance into eternity. 

A wild sensation, never felt before, 

Arrests my breath. 'Tis as the world were past, 

And I were left to meditate alone, 

A living statue, on the lifeless waste, 

The heavens my tent, the earth my empty throne, 

Beyond the sphere of joy, or sorrow cast, 

Behind, a dark abyss ; before, a void unknown. 



222 SONNETS. 



XXIV. 

ON KIRKE WHITE. 

Though as the dews of morning short thy date, 

Though Sorrow look'd on thee, and said, " Be mine," 

Yet, with a holy ardour, Bard divine, 

I burn, I burn, to share thy glorious fate, 

Above whate'er of honour, or estate, 

This transient world can give. How vainly shine 

Power's golden sceptre, Rank's emblazon'd line, 

Wealth's jewell'd robe, thy fame to emulate ! 

For thou hast won the prize of well-tried worth, 

That prize, which from thee never can be riven, 

Thine is a proud, immortal name on earth, 

Thine amaranthine wreaths, new-pluck'd in heaven, 

By what aspiring child, of mortal birth, 

Could more be ask'd ? To whom might more be given ? 



SONNETS. 223 



XXV. 

PETRARCH TO LAURA. 

Oh, dearer than the dearest, through this sea 

Of doubts, and troubles, and perplexing fears, 

Where my frail bark with trembling caution steers, 

What is't, that guides me, but the love of thee ? 

'Tis said that love with time will cease to be, 

But mine has stood the silent lapse of years, 

Undimm'd by absence, uneffac'd by tears, 

Yea, deeper grav'd by all my misery ! 

Men said, I should forget thee ; did they know 

The depth, and nature of a love, like mine ; 

That Love's true orb, through Sorrow's cloud may throw 

Its shadow o'er it, cannot cease to shine ? 

Alas, their eyes are ever fix'd below, 

What should they comprehend of things divine? 



224 SONNETS. 



XXVI. 

ON VISITING SOME NORMAN RUINS NEAR 
CASTLE-ACRE PRIORY, IN NORFOLK. 

Ye Norman walls, half sunk in grand decay, 

Vainly your pomp my wearied spirit sees, 

While round your pile yon group of Children play, 

Like pigmies sporting round a giant's knees. 

No glorious visions of the olden day 

Before me flit ; the soul must be at ease 

For Fancy to exert her lively sway, 

For Art to charm, or Nature's self to please. 

Ah, not for me the dead of other years, 

Arising, people your majestic round, 

A nearer interest claims my thoughts, and tears, 

And disenchants your legendary ground, 

While o'er each spot glides one lov'd phantom pale, 

And one lov'd voice still sighs in every gale. 



SONNETS. 225 



XXVII. 

TO THE GODDESS OF MATHEMATICS. 

O Mathesis, I loathe thy very sight! 
Methinks, I see thee now thy form disclose, 
(Circles, thine eyes, a triangle, thy nose) 
While Taste and Fancy fly in wild affright ! 
Hence to the realms of Erebus, and night, 
Hence to thy friends, for I am of thy foes ! 
O'er thy sad page bid owl-ey'd Dulness doze, 
Where walls monastic dim day's cheerful light. 
Me shall the various lyre of Shakespeare charm, 
Or Milton's pomp transport to worlds above ; 
Me iEschylus with pleasing dread alarm, 
Or Homer fire, or Ovid melt to love. 
He, whom the Muses once have deign'd to warm, 
Can never, never thy disciple prove ! 



226 SONNETS. 



XXVIII. 

TO PEACE. 

While I recline near this lone water-fall, 

Gazing upon it, till, at every gush, 

The waters seem, with wilder force, to rush, 

Dizzily foaming down their rocky wall ; 

While o'er my head yon airy cedars tall 

Wave their wide arms ; come, holy Peace, and hush 

Each thought, at which thy Virgin cheek might blush, 

Within my breast. Ah, wherefore should I call 

On thy sweet voice in vain ! I do not sigh 

For brighter fame, than waits the bard's career, 

Me mad Ambition never hurl'd from high, 

No dreams of wealth excite my hope, or fear, 

Nor unrequited Passion bids thee fly ; 

Ah, why then vainly do I woo thee here ? 



SONNETS. 227 



XXIX. 

ON FINDING SOME EARLY SNOW-DROPS. 

How spring-like is the fragrance of these flowers, 

Which, from the green bank, woo the passing stream ! 

Their vernal breath awakes the tender theme 

Of early pleasures ; while the fairy hours 

(When, 'mid blithe April's dew-bespangled bovvers, 

I wander'd, jocund as the sunny gleam, 

That laughs away the oft-returning showers,) 

Steal on my soul, resistless as a dream. 

O Memory, not with sight, or sound, alone, 

Thy sympathies are link'd ! Thy sway prevails 

O'er every sense ; all Nature is thine own ; 

Thy Handmaids are her streams, her groves, her gales; 

Ev'n from her flowers thy magic art exhales 

Joy's subtle sweets, though Joy itself be flown. 



228 SONNETS. 



XXX. 

THE CONTRAST. 

Where the long vista opens to the west, 
Through the deep foliage of the tangled brake, 
How richly glows yon small, embosom'd lake, 
Mirror of Eve, with all her hues imprest ! 
While other waters, in the vapory east, 
Beneath cold Twilight's eye, gleam pale, and bleak, 
Nor any print of Evening's beauty take ; 
Unjoyous as the dull, and wordly breast, 
For whom in vain the charms of Nature shine, 
To whom in vain God's lavish gifts are given ; 
While thou, fair lake, imprest with hues of Even, 
Art as the bosom, touch'd with light divine, 
That catches warmth from Nature's radiant shrine, 
And lives, and glows, beneath the smile of Heaven. 

THE END. 



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